All the transfers failed. The final round happened second half of 2018, nearly three and a half years after we had our first conversation about donating. The last set didn't even thaw, which was a shock, the way we had set ourselves up for a grand climax at the end of a two week wait, at the end of our three-and-a-half-year donor journey at the end of the whole, long decade since we first agreed we'd like to make a baby, and even then I was half-imagining a greater climax beyond the grand climax, some sort of extra-climactic climax followed by a series of steadily escalating climaxes right up to the Magnificent Ultimate Megaclimax, all that ending on the day before transfer like a cut-off phone call, mid-sentence, like the credits rolling in the middle of a film, like a storm that claps thunder, blowing on without rain, like... your last embryo, suddenly not thawing. Like that.

It's strange. We are now left to navigate a new transition in our friendship with our recipients (somehow I only thought that would be a thing if the donation succeeded). People (outsiders) still don't know what to say. They fumble for words and fail, or (worse) they don't even try fumbling. This still annoys me.


For what it's worth, I wrote a poem, back when I had hope, which I'll leave here:

Otherwise, I went yesterday to update our health cover. I removed fertility treatments and obstetrics, added physiotherapy, child psychology and orthodontics, which I guess is where we are at now, which is fine, I mean, it's where we always planned to be, it's the "here" we were aiming for. So that must be the last of it. Well, it's never the last of it, but isn't it an ok place to finish telling the story?



Thanks sincerely, I mean it.

Inbox me sometime, if you want to. I'm here.