Watching The Debate After Our IVF Failed

Ronita Choudhuri-Wade

It was Sept 10th, a minute before the Harris-Trump debate was about to begin. With the TV already on, my parents, husband and I were settling into our TV room: my mom was on the recliner arranging her blanket, my dad was finding the right place to put his plate of exactly two sandesh as he sat on the light blue couch. A cushion or two down from him were my husband and I. It was a warm picture of a multicultural American family - my parents arrived in the U.S. in the 1970s; my husband grew up in the Midwest as a descendant of settlers from the late 1600s; and me, a second-generation Indian-American.

But the only thing I could feel at that moment was the cold burn of an ice pack on my lower stomach. It felt like the Arctic descending into my skin, through the bruises from days and days of injections; numbing any lingering sensations of pain. 

About 36 hours earlier, you would’ve found me crying in my car, under the shade of a tree, in the parking lot of our IVF clinic. Tears streamed down my face as the doctor’s words circled in my head. “There aren’t enough eggs, and of the one, maybe two we see, there's a slim chance they’ll survive retrieval.” Our IVF had failed, and I couldn’t make sense of it. My husband and I had been told by all of our doctors that given our health, the IVF was likely to go swimmingly. Yet here I was, after months of paperwork, appointments and days upon days of injections that were causing me excruciating pain and swelling, feeling any hope slip away from my fingers. 

We had been trying for a kid for close to two years. After the pandemic, we moved to a state with a lower cost of living and closer to my husband’s family. We found a family-friendly small city that would be a perfect place to raise a baby. Yet, month after month passed, and we weren’t successful. After speaking with doctors, IVF became the likely pathway. 

Then one morning, with my coffee cup in hand and as I scrolled through the news on my phone, the words “IVF”, “Alabama” and “ruling” popped up on my screen. I froze and read the article once, and then again. My heart clenched as I thought about the domino effects of the case. We lived in a Republican-led state: what if we do IVF and freeze embryos? Would the embryos be at risk? Would fertility doctors locally start to be nervous about providing care? IVF seemed to be our main way to have a family - what if it gets taken away? 

My husband and I thought deeply, not only about ourselves but also those who wanted choices about their bodies and fertility care. Lawmakers were using tactics to curb options for women and create fear that rippled through lives and the healthcare system. I hate to admit it, but it worked. 

We had the enormous privilege of doing IVF where I grew up on the East Coast. My husband and I found a great clinic near my family’s home and flew back and forth multiple times to attend appointments, complete tests and be ready for when the cycle started. I got pricked for blood tests more times than I could count. We started IVF near the end of August. I cried out of fear of those injections, but I smiled out of what may be an incredible future.

Yet, things didn’t go as planned. By day 10 of the IVF cycle, we and our doctors decided to cancel the retrieval. The follicles I had just seen a few days ago on the ultrasound screen - the family that I imagined - had essentially stopped growing at pace. We were not going to be able to make embryos. Despite all the medications, it had not worked.

By the time I made my way to that light blue couch that night, sitting between my father and my husband, across from my mom, every drop of me felt like it had been sucked away and vanished into the air. 

I adjusted my icepack as Vice President Harris answered the first question. As the minutes flew by, she continued to make her arguments, point after point after point. When she spoke about IVF, my husband and I looked for each other’s hands and squeezed tight. Harris was fighting for what this country should be and could be, as well as to be the first female President of the country. And there, amongst my family, something deep inside me started bubbling up - not in the form it had been the last few months, but in a different avatar - about what the future may hold: hope. 

Ronita is a writer and painter, currently based in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She is working on her first novel.