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.

It's been a long time between posts. That's infertility for you.

We're still here, still waiting for the stars to align on the next embryo transfer - stars of blood, stars of schedules, stars of endometrial lining, stars of emotional readiness. You know - stars. Well make up your own metaphor then.

While you're doing that, let me tell you about what a wise woman once said to me. Not that it was the only thing she said - amongst her many words of advice and the story of her experience there was a lot to learn. But I want to talk about this one thing because it's where we are at - and I have my own take on it.

The thing she told me was that while embryo donors give a great gift to their recipients, their recipients also give a gift back, and that's the gift of closure. And I think maybe that's true.

But it shouldn't be.

I'm going to say it: find closure first. There, I gave you advice. Find closure on your own terms, in your own way, within your own sphere of control, within your own selves. Our recipients are struggling forward as fast as they can, which it turns out is very slowly. They're not in a position to give much back and, look, I remember what it's like. I remember being less than capable too.

I'm glad we held off making this decision all those years, even though in hindsight, that delay was a subtle brake on what we could have been doing - throwing more energy into our jobs, making plans for the family we already have, getting on with outside projects. Now, though, we're breathing. We know it will take as long as it takes and we're ok with that. We have our peace of mind and it doesn't rely on what our recipients do or do not get done with our embryos this year - and if a child comes into the equation, well, I just want us all to be able to start off right.

I want to thank you all for helping to be our closure. I can't say that enough. And I include in that the wise woman whose words I've discussed here. Truly, you guys are my stars and you've aligned for us.

In the meantime, I have nothing of note to report here. We're just, you know. Waiting.


The heartbeat scan went well. But I guess you can't pick up every ectopic pregnancy on every apparently-normal heartbeat scan. A week later her fallopian tube burst without warning and she was rushed to the OR.

The baby is obviously gone. She's ok.


I know when she told me it looked normal at eight weeks I was relieved.
I know much of what I'd been feeling before was a sort of displaced early pregnancy anxiety, rather than pure maternal grief.
I know there was still a touch of grief. 
I know she's upset but she's handling it well. So is he.
I know ultimately, I wanted it to work.


When, how, how often, and with what words should I contact them?
How do I feel that we gave them the opportunity to experience a life-threatening miscarriage?
Should I feel good that we held up "our end of the bargain" - a good embryo for our recipients - or bad that we didn't hold up "our end of the bargain" - a safe uterus for our embryo?
Is three remaining embryos enough?
When will we get to find out?
Don't the stakes seem kind of high now?
How sad am I supposed to be, and how much of my sadness am I allowed to share with them in theirs?
What's the protocol for this?
What if it never works again? 

They went ahead with the first embryo transfer.

"How do you feel?" asked my friend, because I seem to have managed to pull together a small group of people who, without mutual knowledge or communication, have gone and made it their function to keep asking me how I feel. It's reminiscent of blogging, but in meat space. It's weird.

I said, "Surprised," when our recipients let us know that all six of the two-day-old embryos had survived the thaw. "Didn't know they all had it in them."

It was later I realised with a slight chill that we'd passed the point of no return. Those embryos were only ours til they thawed.

A single, "beautiful" blast was transferred on the Monday, and a second one put back in the freezer for another time. Our recipient explained all the things she was planning to help its chances (acupuncture, meditation, diet, clearly-defined periods of baby-holding and not-baby-holding) and gave us the date for the blood test. She said she was trying to keep her hopes in perspective. And me? I was telling my friend I felt fine. From this distance, without the artificial hormones, the whole process is less intense.

She got pregnant. I'm telling you like that so we can cut to the chase: at 3am last night I found myself sobbing in my living room, shuffling through my contact lists to see who in which time zone might be up and willing to talk. When I found someone, I wondered "aloud" if I was the worst mother in the world, but ultimately I had to explain that I had known it would be like this, at least a little bit, perhaps a lot. We knew and we did it anyway. That was our choice.

So I went out with my phone for a walk in the darkness. "Do you think this feeling will pass?" my friend asked me, and I said, "I know it will. Feelings always do," but then a second friend chimed in and said, "I'm guessing you'll always feel something there," and suddenly my heart was lighter, like it just then realised it didn't have to go through it all that night, because it would in any case be going through it piece by piece each day.

This morning, a third friend asked, "Do you regret your decision?" and I said, "It's too early to say yet. In my books, she's not really pregnant til they see a heartbeat, and that scan won't happen til next year." But I keep coming back to the moment I got the news, and I know it sounds dramatic and perhaps a little cliche, but my hands actually shook and I felt a light head spin, so I lowered myself onto my knees and pressed my forehead to the floor as if praying, and I focussed on my breath while I waited for it all to sink in. It took sixty whole seconds to realise I was whispering, over and over, subconsciously.

And what I was whispering were two simple words. And the words were: "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

You mostly hear from embryo donors through glossy testimonials on agency websites. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means there's little to say, that donating couples are, by and large, secure and comfortable with their decision, that they signed the paperwork one morning between the school drop-off and the office coffee run and never felt the need to question their choice, let alone bawl about it online.

Maybe our numbers are so low that a strong community of voices is yet to emerge - and in the meantime, difficult to find.

Or maybe it's that few people are interested in listening, or that we don't know how to talk.

Jen put me in touch with a friend who's been through it, and a circle of people opened up to me. I've spoken to several, discussed their experiences, and drawn from the wisdom they've gained. We can tell you that embryo donation is harder than you think. And not always the right decision. And other times, despite the difficulties, it is.

Think carefully about your support network.
Find a professional who has worked with donating families - or (failing that) who has worked with relinquishing families in the more traditional adoption community.
Be clear and frank about your wants and expectations, right from the very beginning.
Expect a rollercoaster, especially if the donation works, and especially over the first few years.
Focus on the kids.
Most importantly: don't hurry forward.

I cried for every page of paperwork I scanned and emailed to the clinic, and there were pages upon pages upon pages upon pages. Then I was seized by a sudden urge to phone the scientists one last time, but I didn't, because I wasn't sure how that conversation would go. "Hi, our embryos are being transported out today, and I just wanted to ring to... um... um...?"

In the end, when the email came through to say our embryos had arrived safely at the recipients' clinic, I felt fine. Not fine like I had nothing left to say, but fine, like I could make out the shape of things to come.

If you're here because you're thinking about donating your embryos, feel free to get in touch. Or check out VARTA, the Victorian Assisted Reproductive Treatment Authority, which provides this decision-making tool for those with unused embryos, amongst other resources.

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