At age 34, I’m having a panic attack. I might be biologically ready for
procreation — past ready, even — but, emotionally, I’m committed to my
career, not to The One. I’m still asking, which One? I exist in that “30 is
the new 20” generation: perfection-seeking, commitment-phobic and no
way near ready. But I need to insure against finding myself in a Tracey Emin
moment, choked by my childlessness at 40. Twenty-three per cent of women
born in 1973 won’t have had children by the time they hit 45. By which time
it might be too late. I need to put my fertility on ice, before it runs out
on me. So I’m having my eggs frozen.
It isn’t a cheap option. At the Bridge clinic, in London, it costs from £4,000
to £4,750, plus an annual storage fee of £230 (waived for under-35s in
return for a donation of half their eggs). As for the pain? Aside from nine
injections, 10 blood tests and two junked, bruised arms, eight ultrasound
wands up my, umm, carnal canal, the egg-collecting procedure under sedation
and, in total, nine weeks of consultation . . . It’s less physically
painful, more like being held up in roadworks: a short-term bother with (one
hopes) longer-term benefits.
I’d been incubating the idea of egg-freezing for some time, but had previously
ruled it out because, frankly, it didn’t really work. Egg survival rates
were bad (as low as 40%), because the ice crystals that form in freezing
damage the egg in thawing. If a woman were serious about future-proofing her
fertility, she’d be better off doing it with a partner or a donor, since
it’s much easier to freeze embryos. But, this June, results came through
from Canada of a new freezing method — rapid vitrification (using liquid
nitrogen, which reduces the formation of crystals). Its IVF pregnancy rates
(the inevitable next step in order to conceive from frozen eggs) were almost
the same as when using fresh eggs.
I start my research. “We don’t like women over the age of 35,” says a
fertility expert at Midland Fertility Services (MFS). Harsh! “There’s an
instant decline after that age in the quality of eggs. And another watershed
at 40.” MFS has had four “ice” babies (the only four in the UK, it claims;
there have been 800 worldwide, according to one estimate), including the
UK’s first (in 2002, from the old method). Despite not having introduced
vitrification, its track record makes MFS an obvious starting point. But,
for a Londoner, it’s an impractical option.
The fertility guru Zita West recommends the Centre for Assisted Reproduction
(CARE), with its headquarters in Nottingham, which does chromosomal
screening on eggs “in a way that we haven’t been able to before”, she says.
Only eggs with normal chromosomes are thawed (usually the screening takes
place at the time of the thawing). Genetic quality deteriorates with age and
is a big cause of failure in IVF. Screening here costs more than £300 per
egg.
I opt for Bridge. No live births yet from its egg-freezing programme, but it
has more than a year’s experience in the new method, is licensed by the
Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority, and comes on personal
recommendation.
And so I find myself surveying its waiting room: all thirty- to fortysomething
single women and hand-holding couples and a tension of expectation; it is a
lonely place when flying solo. First, I see a healthcare worker and a nurse
for the basics and to have my history taken (have I abused children?), and
then the consultant, Mohamed Menabawey. “Egg-freezing is going to be a
lifestyle choice for women,” he says. “It’s like the pill in the 1960s. In
the next 20 years, this will become mainstream.” Since September last year,
32 women have frozen their eggs at Bridge — 89% of them single, 95% delaying
motherhood for social reasons (as opposed to medical reasons, such as prior
to chemotherapy). “You can have a face-lift, but not an organ-lift,”
Menabawey adds.
But, I am warned, it’s a lot to go through, with no guaranteed outcome: frozen
eggs do not equal a baby. IVF has a less than 30% chance of success each
cycle, and you can expect three cycles (I’d have to fork out £2,200 for
each). So if I were really sensible/ rich/neurotic, I should set up three
sets of egg collections. The drugs will make me tired and emotional.
Hedonism will have to be shelved for a few weeks. I’ll have to self-inject
(inject myself?! Outsource! Outsource!), and have my ovaries punctured to extract
the eggs. There will be bruising — I’ll “know about it”. Egg-freezing might
seem drastic, but it feels less so than exercising my remaining fertility
right now. I sign on the dotted line.
First, I am put through a fertility MOT. Ladies, if you’re in any way
fertility-anxious, go get — it comprises two simple blood tests to measure
your ovarian reserves. This old banger passes.
“Drop your trousers, please.” I have a pelvic ultrasound scan to assess the
health of my ovaries and womb. The perfunctory nature of it all quickly
forces me past the humiliation of having a lubed-up ultrasonic dildo
inserted. Verdict: good to go. I’m despatched to dose up on folic acid,
antioxidants and healthy food.
It all starts painlessly enough. I use a nasal spray for two weeks to
“down-regulate” my cycle, so that my bits behave menopausally (so no
period), thereby relinquishing all control of my cycle to the clinic: cue
menopausal symptoms (hot flushes, mood swings). Two weeks later, I have to
inject myself daily with follicle-stimulating hormones, for 10 to 15 days.
This is to induce a cycle optimised to produce large, mature eggs (which —
if you weren’t listening in biology class — grow in the follicles). I also
have to keep sniffing the nasal spray to stop me ovulating prematurely.
On day four of injecting, I have the first of my daily blood tests to measure
my oestrogen levels, and ultrasound scans to see how my follicles are
growing. At normal ovulation, one follicle swells from 10mm to more than
16mm wide; a follicle of this size gives a 70% chance of “mature” eggs
overall. Soon it starts to feel like the giant peach is growing inside me
(akin to severe PMT bloating).
By day eight, my nurse says there are enough hormones coursing through me to
make me want to murder someone; actually, fiendish thoughts evade me, though
I do find myself manoeuvring like a pregnant person, levering myself up and
down with my hands. My oestrogen level has shot up to 20,000 pmol/l (at rest
it is 150), so they stop the injections early (cool), as this indicates I’m
hyperstimulating (not cool) — the worst-case scenario is death, caused by
the ovaries leaking fluid into the lungs. But it’s rare. A milder form still
requires hospitalisation, so I am told to watch for nausea, vomiting and
diarrhoea. A swell of nausea comes, but is gone by day 11, when my oestrogen
levels have dropped to 8,000: I’m ready for the injection to trigger
ovulation in 36 hours’ time; harvesting will take place in precisely 35
hours.
From eight hours beforehand, I’m nil by mouth, and told to avoid make-up,
deodorant, nail varnish and perfume. Someone (my sister) will need to escort
me home. The procedure itself is conducted, like the scan, via my lady lair,
but this time with a needle — I’ll be out of it, thankfully. I start to feel
a bit foolish. Why am I subjecting myself to this non-essential yet invasive
procedure? A cannula is fed into my arm, and then the sedative . . .
“Hello, Fleur. We’ve collected 15 eggs!” These are the words I come round to,
20 minutes later, on a bed with a fat sanitary towel between my legs (to
catch the post-operative bleeding). After a couple of tests and a compulsory
sandwich, I’m released into the world again, for a day in bed, feeling
swollen, tender and delicate. A call later that day informs me that, of the
15 eggs, only seven were mature enough to be washed and frozen.
I can’t help but feel disappointed — doctors need to freeze at least 15
high-quality eggs for fertility treatment later. I will need to go through
it all again to make any of this worthwhile. Which will also mean about
another £4,000. Perhaps this is all just academic — I might never call upon
my frozen eggs. But it’s better peace of mind than none at all. Turning back
the biological clock a mite will surely muffle my female frustrations.
Though, now, of course, there’s even less urgency to commit.
