When I initially set out to do IVF, the plan was to do one cycle. This feels so naïve now, but at the time, we firmly believed – as did my medical team – that it was all we’d need. I have loads of follicles, and the antral follicle count (AFC) that they measure leading up to your IVF cycle was always off-the-charts. “Finally,” I thought, “something relating to my pelvic and reproductive health is easy.”

Like I said: we were naïve.

I just completed my third cycle of IVF. While I’ve had 89 eggs extracted from my body since mid-May, I have just 4 healthy frozen embryos. That’s the thing about having such active ovaries: they get a bit too jazzed about the effects of the IVF drugs. Some of my ovarian follicles grab ahold of the drugs the moment they hit my system (via a needle jabbed into the back of my arm by the love of my life), and they race ahead of the other follicles. They grow exponentially each day, leaving the little ones in their wake. My daily blood draws and vaginal ultrasounds show them growing to 2 cubic centimeters, then over 4 cubic centimeters. That’s great, right? Well, it would be if all of the little follicles could keep up.

In my most recent cycle, I had 9 days of injections before I was “triggered” with a shot of HCG into my butt muscle. Going into that cycle, my AFC had hit 82 (that’s a shitload of follicles), and my daily monitoring appointments showed that things looked awesome. On my last ultrasound before retrieval, I had over a dozen follicles that looked like they’d contain mature eggs – and that was done two days before my procedure. My husband and I were relieved and excited: this cycle had been my hardest, but it looked like it would yield the best results.

Like I said: we were naïve.

In a way, it was a successful cycle: they retrieved 34 eggs. However, only 12 of those eggs were mature. The ones who had raced ahead? They never did let the little guys catch up with them. Immature eggs can’t be fertilized, so their journey ends then and there. Of the 12 eggs that were mature, 4 refused to be fertilized. They made it this far and they refuse to be injected with my hubby’s sperm? Are you kidding me? What did they think this whole process was for? Those 4 eggs get tossed – if they won’t fertilize, they’re of no use to me.

The lab called to give me the update the day after my retrieval: that we were down to those 8 fertilized eggs. They’re now being grown out by 5-6 days in the lab, with the hope that they’ll become blastocysts. On day 6, the ones that remain will be biopsied, and those biopsies will be sent to a different lab for genetic testing. Make no mistake: all 8 of them will not make it to the 6th day! And once the genetic testing lab gets done reviewing their DNA, we’ll experience the final “bloodbath,” as we’ve taken to calling these numerical drop-offs. Whichever blastocysts are genetically healthy will be the ones we freeze for future use. It’s this process that’s yielded us 4 embryos thus far.

This all feels really unfair. Any medical treatments are hard for me, as I feel like I’ve had enough medical intervention to last 3 lifetimes. But I want a family, and I refuse to alter my vision of our family and future simply because ghosts of my past pain history try to scare me. The hardest part of the entire process for me is the morning of the retrieval when they insert the IV into my hand. Having spent too many weeks of my young life in the hospital already, it completely freaks me out. During my first procedure, with tears pouring down my cheeks, I stuck both of my hands under my butt and irrationally refused to give them to the nurse. Like everyone on this team, she was gentle and wonderful. She set her IV supplies to the side and told me to give her my hand. She took it in hers and gently rubbed it. She told me being scared was normal, and she softly assured me that I was alright. She told me to take deep breaths and handed me tissues to wipe my snot, all without releasing my hand clasped in hers. Then she asked if I was ready to do this. I nodded – I was as ready as I’d ever be. A few minutes later, my hubby was allowed back to see me before my procedure. His eyes locked onto my puffy face and reddened eyes – “what happened?!” he asked. “I’m scared,” was my reply.

As I await our upcoming results, again I say: we were naïve, and I’m scared. I’m fearful of not getting the results I want. I’m fearful of disappointing my husband. I’m fearful that the reason we may not get the family we want is because I cannot carry a pregnancy myself, and this first stage of our surrogacy journey is just the beginning of a series of disappointments. I’m fearful that more needles and hormones are in my future. Aside from all of that, I’m sore, bloated, and incredibly uncomfortable. I’m drinking 120 ounces of electrolyte fluids each day, but I’m peeing far less than that, because my super-stimulated ovaries apparently like to leak some of that fluid back into my abdomen through broken capillaries. So instead of losing my IVF weight, I’m gaining more. I’m safe, and I’m doing everything right, and I’m supported. My doctors, therapist, family, and friends all have my back. My hubby totally has my back, and he’s taken his job of keeping the fridge stocked with VitaminWater as seriously as he takes his job of an attorney.

Whatever happens next with this cycle, it’s out of our hands. The disappointments that accompany this journey are simultaneously anticipated and unexpected, and I’ve worked hard to plow ahead without allowing shadows of my past to dictate my current decisions. But that’s hard, as it’s an indelible part of my emotional and physical history, and my body remembers too well how fiercely I fought to recover from pelvic pain. Before we decide what’s next, we’re focused on healing me physically and emotionally from this cycle. Only when my life returns to normal can I really make a decision about whether I’m willing to take another detour from normalcy for the sake of our family planning. And to make any decisions about that now would be to make choices out of fear – something we’ve sworn not to do.