Eggcellent Mom Chronicles

I knew this wouldn’t be easy.

From the moment I decided to pursue motherhood through fertility treatment, I understood there would be hurdles. Shots. Appointments. Disappointments. I braced myself for that. But I didn’t expect it to be this hard. I didn’t expect it to touch every part of my life the way it has.

I’ve already written about aging, how little we’re taught about female anatomy, and the heartbreak of failed transfers. I’ve put my heart on these pages. I’ve been vulnerable in ways I didn’t know I could be. And I’m grateful for this space. It lets me share what would otherwise sit heavy and alone.

Lately, though, the weight of it all has caught up to me.

There is the science of it. Blood tests. Ultrasounds. Doctors speaking in probabilities and protocols. And then there is the human side. The part where I try to be a functioning adult while carrying the emotional load of infertility. I work. I show up. I smile. But underneath it all is a constant hum. Can I really do this again?

I question everything.

Is my diet clean enough? Will the hormonal weight gain from this past year affect my chances? What if I mess this up again? What if my body is just not capable of this?

I know how many pokes are coming. The injections. The bruises. The weird stinging from certain meds. I know what it feels like to move through daily routines while my ovaries are swollen and my moods are all over the place. I know the rhythm and the disruption of the cycle ahead. And still, I am choosing to do it again. 

It’s been nearly a month since my surgery. It went well, but the outcome was not what I expected.

I remember waking up and asking, “Did they find any endometriosis?”

It felt like the answer to everything hinged on that one question. I had built my plan around the idea that silent endometriosis was the issue. And when the nurse said yes, I felt relief. It made sense. Finally, I thought, something we can fix.

At my post-op appointment two weeks ago, I found out that wasn’t the full story.

Yes, the surgeon cleared adhesions and removed two patches of tissue. But when the pathology came back, it was not endo. It was inflamed tissue and scarring. Not the confirmation I expected. Not the answer I needed. And somehow, I felt ashamed. Like I had believed too strongly in a theory that did not hold. Like I pinned my hope to the wrong diagnosis.

Still, the surgery was not a waste. I got to see clips of it. My anatomy. The tools. The precision of it all. It was wild and fascinating. I even asked for the video, but my surgeon said he could only upload photos to my chart (lame, right?).

The truth is, something was wrong and it was removed. That matters. But I am still in the gray. My doctor now thinks the elevated BCL6 result from my biopsy might be caused by dilated fallopian tubes. Another possible cause of inflammation. Another possible block on the road to pregnancy. 

Which means more tests. More waiting. More effort to keep this from being my entire identity.

Because if I am not careful, it could be. It takes up so much space already. And every day I have to make the choice not to let it take over everything. 

I want to be a mom. I want to raise a kind and funny kid. I want to bring another Jewish life into this world. I want to be the tired parent up at 3am for another feeding. I want weekends full of youth leagues and birthday parties. I want a house full of love and laughter. I want a child.

In early June, I will find out if I’m cleared for another egg retrieval. It is not guaranteed. But I am hoping. I am hoping so hard.

And still, I did not expect it to be this hard.