[Author’s Note #1: If you’ve arrived at this story after seeing one of my social media posts… then I’m sorry, because the above-promised “unexpected twist” is neither unexpected nor a twist. Even so, I still invite you to read about the entire journey — since its outcome was far from inevitable.]
[Author’s Note #2: I’ll cut to the chase: This is not the post that I expected to write.
When I teased a “risky undertaking with uncertain outcomes”, I envisioned drafting a rich, nuanced memoir series, á la The Birth of Borealis. But now, months later — for reasons overwhelming both in quantity and magnitude — that feat has officially eluded my efforts.
Thus, here I am, now proffering the entire story in a single unwieldy installment. There were, necessarily, entire chapters that I was forced to omit. Not insignificant ones, either: important, life-changing chapters. Indeed, I still sincerely hope to write the full saga, one day… but that day is not today.
You see, in the midst of laundry hampers and school drop-offs and ballet lessons and birthday celebrations… the world continues to turn, and life continues to happen.
So, here’s a very condensed version of what transpired when our lives continued to happen.]
PROLOGUE
Orientalis was always going to be our last baby. After all, God had given us just four genetic children: Borealis (“Bo” — born February 2018), Australis (“Aza” — born November 2019), Occidentalis (“Occi” — miscarried February 2021), and Orientalis (“Rhys” — born April 2022).
Four kids. That was it. And, put simply, we were incredibly certain of this mandate. So certain, in fact, that Taylor got a vasectomy a month before Rhys was even born.
Indeed, we continued to be so certain about our genetic parenthood. And yet… increasingly, our family felt incomplete. We knew that we weren’t supposed to create any more of our kids… but we began to think that, perhaps, we were meant to adopt someone else’s kids.
This was much easier said than done — especially since every potential avenue led to a definitive dead-end. Again and again, we found ourselves saying “no”.
No, foster care is not the right option for our family. That is an extremely difficult calling to which we have no inclination, *at all*. To quote one of our pastors… “Don’t manufacture a calling where you don’t have one.”
No, domestic adoption is not the right option for our family. In general, the children who need forever homes are either newborns or are older than Borealis. There is no shortage of infertile couples who want newborns — and for the sake of our preexisting children, we won’t adopt outside of birth order.
No, international adoption is not the right option for our family. We have three kids under five, and we literally can’t afford the travel and in-country cohabitation requirements.
No, kinship adoption is not the right option for our family — because, well, that usually requires that something go tragically wrong in the life of a loved one… and we could hardly justify hoping for that.
But… what other kinds of adoption are there? None, that we could think of.
Accordingly, we were at a total impasse: longing for another child that we seemingly couldn’t have. The situation felt utterly intractable. We pleaded with God — either to alter our decision matrix, or to mend our cavernous heartbreak.
And then, at the right time and in the right way, God moved. In a single moment, He bent our story in a completely unexpected direction.
ACT I
Taylor didn’t immediately realize that he was the instrument of this change. After all, it was just a simple text: My work buddy and his wife just did their first round of IVF.
Who could have anticipated the way in which that information would hit me? Indeed, it felt almost like a physical assault. I clutched at my chest and murmured, “But what will happen to their extra babies? Will they get the chance to be born?”
My heart broke at the thought of the couple’s lonely babies, waiting in frozen darkness for the chance to be transferred. And then, I pictured not just those babies — but all of them. After all, this was hardly the first couple to do IVF — or, indeed, to face the issue of “extra babies”. So how many was “all of them”?
A quick Google search turned up a mind-boggling statistic. In the United States alone, a million and a half embryos linger in cryogenic sleep. As I had guessed, many of those are considered “leftover” — that is, when an embryo’s genetic parents have no plans to transfer that embryo.
How does this happen? Lots of reasons. Maybe the parents have “enough kids”, or they’ve gotten too old, or they’ve had a financial catastrophe, or they’ve split up, or any number of reasons.
But as for those leftover embryos… well, a lot of them just remain frozen, indefinitely. Many couples continue paying their cryogenic fees for years — or even decades — after having their last embryo transfer. Even so, this frozen purgatory just kicks the can down the road — because in the end, there are only two outcomes. Whether it takes months or years or decades, each embryo will either live… or it will die.
But if the genetic parents can’t transfer the embryo….
I blinked away tears as I typed my next search: How to adopt leftover embryos.
As I sifted through the torrent of results, I wondered why we had never considered this option — but, almost immediately, I realized the answer.
Oh — God must have waited until we were ready to receive it.
Indeed, now I was nothing if not ready. I had spent months identifying what we weren’t supposed to do; but now….
This is it, I realized. *This* is what we’ve been waiting for.
I felt the ground shift beneath me. I had crossed a Rubicon, and there would be no turning back. To walk away from this would be to walk away from a true calling.
For me, at least. But what if Taylor didn’t agree?
By the time my husband returned home, I had worked myself into a comical tizzy — so much so that I could barely meet my his eyes.
Taylor: <grunts inquisitively>
“Your work buddy… they’re going to have extra embryos… and it will take years, but other people have already done that, and they already have their extras… and maybe they’re supposed to be ours.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
I took a deep breath and started again. “I think we’re being called to adopt frozen embryos.”
Taylor: <grunts in surprise>
After so many years of marriage, I knew that I needed to let my husband process this bombshell before rushing in with more information. I clenched my jaw to hold in all the words, while my brain positively roared with static. The silent seconds mocked me as they crawled by.
Eventually, Taylor asked, “Why?”
“Because all the other adoption methods aren’t right for our family,” I answered. After a pause, I added, “And because each of these embryos is an image-bearer. Each of them is worthy of dignity and love.”
“But they’re not, like, getting older. It’s not urgent.”
I knew, even then, that I would hear this argument over and over again. Why wouldn’t you adopt an already-born baby? Why wouldn’t you prioritize a child who needs a home *right now*? Why would you spend time and money on an embryo with an indefinite shelf life?
I smiled sadly through tears. Those are valid questions… but they also have a valid answer. “Because,” I said, “although they may not be equally urgent, they are still equally important.”
Taylor: <grunts in acknowledgement>
“Who is fighting for these forgotten, lonely babies?” I pressed.
Taylor shook his head. “Almost no one.”
“But if the Body of Christ is working correctly, then every single child will have a loving home,” I insisted. “Both the born ones… and the unborn ones. Every member of the Body is called to something different. We are not responsible for anyone else’s calling, but we are responsible for our own.”
I saw a shift in Taylor’s eyes, and I once again painstakingly held my tongue. After what felt like minutes, he clarified, “And you think we’re called to this?”
“Well… my uterus still works, doesn’t it?”
Taylor: <grunts in surprised amusement>
“No, I’m serious,” I insisted. “Like, a fifty-year-old might be called to do foster care, but she can’t be called to adopt embryos. God may call us to something else in the future… but for right now, I think this is it.”
Taylor: <grunts contemplatively>
I hesitated, then aired out my last secret. “Taylor… I think — if we don’t do this — that I will always regret it.”
“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Me too.”
I knew, from that moment, that our hearts were decided… even if our brains were still catching up.
There were, of course, some practical considerations to sort out. Like, was this even possible? To my relief, the answers to that question were extremely encouraging.
From a financial perspective, embryo adoption is relatively affordable — even at its most expensive. We quickly discovered that there were multiple avenues for this sort of process — from “DIY adoption” (through a hands-off database like National Registry for Adoption) to “facilitated adoption” (through an official agency, which usually requires a home study).
Of course, the former option is the least expensive — but we quailed at the prospect of so much independent legwork. For instance, how would we choose a fertility clinic? And how would we transport our adopted embryos there? And what sort of contracts are appropriate for embryos, given that they’re legally considered property?
Long story short: From a logistical standpoint, we had no idea where to even start… and so we quickly realized that, were we to pursue this opportunity, we’d be opting for a more-expensive facilitated adoption. We were quickly drawn to Snowflakes Embryo Adoptions — which, it turns out, was actually the very first “embryo adoption” agency.
[Note: There’s some clarification to be made here — specifically, the difference between “embryo donation” and “embryo adoption”. The former predates the latter, because individual fertility clinics often run their own “embryo donation” programs for leftover embryos. However, in those cases, genetic parents have little or no ability to choose the recipients of their genetic children. On the other hand, in “embryo adoption”, the genetic parents have the final — and, indeed, the only say — in the recipients of said children. Even so, in common parlance, the distinction between these terms is often blurred or altogether nonexistent.]
Beyond the financial, we also considered the matter from a physiological perspective. At twenty-seven, with three successful pregnancies under my belt, I was considered an excellent candidate for receiving a frozen embryo transfer.
Furthermore, we discussed the benefits attendant to any pregnancy. For instance, the baby would know me as its biological (though not genetic) mother; it would be free from drugs and alcohol in utero; and there would be no risk of a “failed placement”. (That’s when a genetic mother unexpectedly decides to retain custody of her child, leaving the prospective adoptive family without their hoped-for adoptee).
As we talked, I noticed a change in Taylor’s language. Without fanfare, his verbs seamlessly slid from hypothetical into definitive.
“You’ve already decided that we’re going to do this,” I pointed out.
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
I laughed a little. “Well, you were saying, ‘The baby would’ — but now you keep saying, ’The baby will’. You switched from subjunctive to indicative without even noticing.”
Taylor: <grunts evasively> “I mean, we still need to pray about it.”
“Ha!” I barked. “Yes, obviously. I’m not trying to take this decision lightly. It just feels so clear, though — like I was waiting for a puzzle piece to lock into place, and that’s finally what happened tonight.”
We were quiet for a bit, each with our own thoughts. I could practically hear Taylor’s left-brain machinations: Is this the right choice for our family? Does our insurance have a fertility benefit? Are there health implications that we haven’t considered?
Meanwhile, I felt pummeled by a singular worry — one to which I finally gave voice.
“Am I too bad a mom?”
Taylor: <grunts in surprise>
“Like, is it ethical for us to bring another child into this family? Or do I need to focus just on the children we already have? You know how frustrated I get with them.”
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “Are you seriously asking me whether it’s better for an embryo to have you as its mother… or to stay frozen?”
“More like: to have me, or to have a more patient and sweet adoptive mother,” I clarified.
“Do you think there’s enough ‘patient and sweet moms’ for all the embryos who need to be adopted?”
I squeezed my eyes shut against the magnitude of the problem. So many souls; so little publicity. Could I merely point at the problem and wait for better women than I to take up the burden?
Taylor brushed a tear off my cheek. He tilted my eyes up to meet his, then murmured, “Besides… you’re a good mom.”
This only made me cry harder.
“Good enough?” I blubbered.
“Yes. Definitely good enough. You are a generous and compassionate mother. I know you get frustrated with the kids, but you always try to give them what they need — and you say sorry when you don’t.”
I blew out a long breath. “Well… I guess I’ll pray about that, too.”
And I did. Saturday was a day of intense prayer — coupled, incidentally, with an intense stomach bug for Bo and Rhys. Taylor and I traded off between caring for our vomit-y boys, praying together, praying separately, and napping. (And, you know, dealing with our own mild stomach bugs.)
That set-up is hardly a recipe for peace — which is how I knew that our inexplicable family serenity was directly from the Lord. I could sense that we were in the eye of a hurricane — and for once, I didn’t rage against the winds. I felt like a bright light had suddenly banished the months-long darkness of my “mental room”. Sure, I could see that the path before us would be lengthy and difficult — but now, at least, I could see the path. My chains of trepidation and insecurity were magically replaced with the buoyancy of purpose and resolve.
Taylor noticed, too. “You’ve being so good with them today. It’s like you’ve finally stopped fighting motherhood.”
“I doubt it’ll last,” I answered sardonically. “I’ve not yet reached the level of sanctification that would empower me to permanently sustain this level of sweetness and patience.”
“Eh, I’m still hopeful.”
I looked at him quietly for a few seconds. “I can see in your eyes that you really have decided. You’ve got those soft eyes that you have for me when I’m pregnant — like when you see me as the mother of your children.”
I watched a muscle work in his jaw. Finally — through great force of will — my laconic husband formed a shockingly sentimental observation. “Yeah. I can feel how light my gaze is towards you. Like, my perspective has already shifted.” He sighed, then pressed, “But how will we know for sure?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Well, when I was praying earlier, I got this sense that we’ll get a definitive answer during church tomorrow.”
Taylor gestured toward Bo’s room, where we had just replaced another set of vomit-soaked sheets. “Clearly not in-person church.”
I sighed. “Apparently not.”
At that moment, a scream came from Rhys’s playard.
I sighed. “Here we go again. I’ll get the baby; you get the fresh sheets.”
Sunday morning found us all comically bleary-eyed. Nine-month-old Rhys had passed much of the night nursing in my bed. Breastmilk seemed to be the best thing for his upset GI tract — and thankfully, he had kept his vomiting to a minimum.
Aza had slept through most of Bo’s nighttime drama, so she was the best-rested of the family. We were hopeful she would dodge the bullet completely… but that hope was quickly dashed.
Partway through watching church, Aza hopped off the couch and sprinted to the bathroom. A few seconds later, she yelled, “Mommy! I have diarrhea!”
I rolled my eyes at Taylor’s expression of squeamish horror. “Keep watching,” I demanded. “I don’t want to miss the sign.”
Taylor: <grunts in dissent> “Actually… I don’t think I need a sign. I got a really clear word while I was praying last night.”
“Mommy!”
“Just a minute, Aza!” I called down the hall. Turning back to Taylor, I pressed, “And!?”
“I just think we’re supposed to.”
Butterflies bloomed in my gut. Was that my own diarrhea? No — it was equal parts hope and anxiety.
“But what if God says no?” I whispered. I was shocked by my sense of anticipatory bereavement.
“I don’t think He will.”
I started down the hall. “Well, turn it up so that *I* can hear, at least.” And then, silently, I prayed, Oh, Lord — *Your* will be done.
In the bathroom, Aza sat placidly on the toilet, seemingly untroubled by her newly developed stomach bug.
“How are you feeling, sweetie?” I asked.
“My butt hurts. And I’m still going poopie.”
“Of course you are,” I muttered. I sat down on the edge of the tub…
…and I was mentally transported two years back in time.
So many things remained the same in my reverie. I was still in the bathroom, on a Sunday morning in February, with a church service playing in the background. But, I was no longer waiting for Aza to finish a messy bowel movement. Instead, I was gritting my way through a painful recitation of Psalm 139… and waiting for my third baby to pass from his brief life on earth.
The gripping sensation passed as quickly as it had come, but it nevertheless left me deeply affected. I tried to brush away my tears before Aza could notice — but, of course, she perceived them immediately.
“Mommy, why are you crying?”
She already knew about Occi, of course. He’s as much a part of her story as he is a part of mine. Indeed, one day, she’ll be the one fielding questions about our family’s omitted compass point. Even so, I normally try to shield her from the worst of my grief… which, admittedly, is not always possible.
Taking a deep breath, I carefully explained, “Well, your brother Occi died on February seventh, twenty-twenty-one — and today is February fifth, twenty-twenty-three. That means that we lost him almost exactly two years ago — and that’s very hard for Mommy, because I still miss him…” My voice broke, and I whispered, “…so much.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I could still picture him — both his dead little body on earth, and his rejuvenated spirit in heaven. I had never seen him again — either physically or mentally — and so all I had left were those memories.
Aza reached over and patted my knee. “I know. It’s very sad that he died.”
I nodded. “Yes, but we trust that God is good — even when sad things happen.”
Aza shrugged in weird agreement, then announced, “I’m done going poopie.”
“Ok. I’ll get you cleaned up.”
I lapsed into silence as I made sure that Aza’s bottom was totally clean — because the last thing we needed was a diarrhea-induced UTI. My mind still lingered on my lost son — until, in a moment, I was jerked back into the present moment.
“The blood of our DNA pales in comparison to the blood of Christ.”
It was the church service, still filtering in from the living room. The house remained quiet just long enough for me to hear our pastor’s emphatic restatement.
“The blood of Christ binds our spiritual family closer than the blood of our DNA ever could.”
And with that, the boys began mewling again, and the rest of the pastor’s point was lost as I helped Aza wash her hands.
It didn’t matter, though… because that was enough.
Alea iacta est. With that final confirmation, our die was cast.
INTERLUDE
So, here’s the very upsetting part for me. After performing my due diligence with Act I, time now necessitates that I completely skip over Acts II and III. It’s not that those seasons of time were unimportant; in fact, they were deeply important, and remain so even now. Rather, it’s that I cannot, in this moment, give those passages their fair due. I have the choice between: 1) telling those stories badly, right now, or 2) telling those stories effectively, sometime in the [potentially nonexistent] future.
In this case, I have decided that the latter option is the lesser of two evils — although, in a vacuum, it is certainly not the ideal choice.
So, without further ado, let’s skip right to Act IV. And if it seems like I’m leaving a lot out… well, that’s because I am.
ACT IV
On March 4, 2024 — a little over one year after we began our embryo adoption journey — Snowflakes notified us that we had been selected by a pair of genetic parents.
Their story is rich and complex — but it’s really not my tale to tell. Rather, I’ll hone in on the story of their five embryos.
At first glance, *five* seemed like an impossibly huge number. Could we really agree to have as many as eight children? I mean, how many more pregnancies could I feasibly bear?
But then… we read the summarized embryology report.
[Author’s Note: Now, unfortunately, I can’t convey this story without getting a bit technical. I’ll try to keep it high-level, though — and I’ll hyperlink the esoteric science-y terms to helpful webpages.]
To explain, I’ll give a [dramatically oversimplified] summary of ideal embryonic development. Every human begins life as a zygote, which is a single-celled embryo created from the fusion of two gametes (i.e. a maternal egg cell and a paternal sperm cell). In the fertility world, a zygote is often called 2pn (meaning “two pro-nuclei” — one from each gamete).
Initially, the embryonic cell count doubles predictably: one cell becomes two, then four, then eight. Around day four, the embryo enters the transitional morula stage; around day five, it becomes a differentiated blastocyst.
But, that’s the ideal case — the case where everything goes according to plan. For a large fraction of zygotes, however, things don’t go according to plan. For whatever reason, an embryo can stall out before reaching this all-important blastocyst stage. While still human, this embryo lacks the ability to actually develop into a fetus, and is thus nonviable. Put simply: every blastocyst begins as a zygote, but not every zygote becomes a blastocyst.
Thus, modernly, the vast majority of embryo transfers occur at the blastocyst stage. This is the easiest way to select the most viable embryos — the ones that have the best ability to grow into full-term babies.
But these five embryos from Snowflakes? They were zygotes.
Admittedly, that was a point of concern — and as we read further, we discovered that it wasn’t the only one.
To elucidate further, I’ll give another [dramatically oversimplified] summary: this time, regarding embryo freezing.
So, obviously, a “frozen embryo transfer” requires… a frozen embryo. However, not all freezing techniques are equal. For decades, the only technology available was slow freezing. The name is fairly descriptive: that is, slow frozen embryos… were frozen slowly.
The benefit of this technology was that… well, that it existed. (Otherwise, all embryo transfers would have been fresh embryo transfers.) However, the primary detriment of slow freezing was the unavoidably high likelihood of embryonic damage. In short: Sometimes slow-freezing rendered embryos… sort of freezer-burnt. They couldn’t always survive the formation of ice crystals — and even when they did, they were often severely damaged. Clearly, the industry was primed for an upgrade.
That upgrade came in the form of vitrification, which is essentially flash-freezing in liquid nitrogen. In this technique, embryonic temperature is cooled so rapidly, ice crystals don’t even have a chance to form. The obvious advantage of this technology is the dramatic improvement in embryonic health outcomes — i.e. less death and/or cellular degradation. Accordingly, vitrification rapidly replaced slow freezing in the late 2000s, with nearly all clinics transitioning their operations by 2010.
And the operative word there… is “nearly”. Though these embryos were created in 2011, they were nevertheless slow-frozen.
“How did we find the last slow-frozen embryos in the United States?” Taylor muttered as he read over my shoulder.
I ignored his gripe and tried to do the math in my head — but I quickly realized that the number of relevant factors would necessitate a pen and paper.
“Ok,” I began, “Best case scenario, four of the five embryos survive the thaw.”
Taylor: <grunts reprovingly>
I sighed, then rephrased. “Barring a literal miracle, the best case is that four survive. Worst case is only three.”
Taylor: <grunts in reluctant agreement>
“And then…” I trailed off as I flicked through statistics online. Finally, I continued, “And then it looks like thirty to sixty percent of the surviving embryos could actually become blastocysts.”
“That’s a pretty broad range.”
“Well, these studies are all a little different, so I’m having to zhuzh the data a bit.”
“And how many blasts actually take?”
I bit my lip. “Snowflakes says that about half of transferred embryos will actually implant. I think the range is like forty to seventy percent? I mean, it depends a lot on the embryo — and also the uterus.”
Taylor arched an eyebrow. “Well, Dr. Clive said that your uterus was top-class.”
I rolled my eyes, even as I laughed. “No, he didn’t! He said that it was ‘perfectly fine’, and you said that it was ‘top-class’!”
“Who would know better than me? I’ve put a lot of babies in there.”
My laughter died immediately. “Yeah. Not all of them made it out alive.”
My husband wrapped me in a hug and kissed the top of my head. After a few seconds, he prompted, “So what’s the final number?”
“Wow. You are just so empathetic. I am so lucky to be your wife.”
Taylor: <grunts with barely contained impatience>
I extracted myself from the hug, pulled up the Calculator app, and surveyed my scratch paper. Finally, I concluded, “Best case rounds to two — but you can’t have a fraction of an embryo, so I think that actually means ‘one’. Plus, that doesn’t even factor in the chances of miscarriage.”
“Ok — so, best case is one,” Taylor summarized. “Which means the worst case….”
My eyes stung as they filled with tears. “Zero.”
Taylor blew out a long breath. “Those aren’t great odds.”
“No. They’re not.”
“So… what do you think?”
“I think we’re gonna have to pray.”
And so, we did.
I was hoping for, like, a really clear sign — akin to how we had felt when God initially led us into embryo adoption.
That wasn’t the case now, though. I could sense God’s presence, but not really His guidance. I just felt a deep sense of ambivalent resignation. Like, this seemed to be the path before us, but I wasn’t especially excited about it.
Fortuitously, though, “excitement” was wholly unnecessary in our decision. We had willingly conceded that point when we enrolled in Snowflakes’s Open Hearts Program, which works specifically with the most difficult-to-place embryos. (Unsurprisingly, it turns out that “impaired ability to inspire excitement” and “difficult-to-place” are highly correlated characteristics.) Thus, within the Open Hearts Program, potential adopters are strongly discouraged from rejecting a match, barring some combination of overwhelmingly salient factors.
Since we hadn’t heard otherwise from God, we quickly judged that “a deep sense of ambivalent resignation” did not rise to the necessary threshold for rejection. After all, why had we enrolled in the Open Hearts program, if not to seek and save the embryos most in need of a home? Wasn’t that why we had chosen a clinic with a history of accepting slow-frozen embryos? Wasn’t my heart torn specifically for “lonely babies”?
Accordingly, from that first night, we leaned strongly toward accepting the match — although we were still committed to praying about the path before us.
Interestingly, while I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of joy and enthusiasm, I did feel one particular prompting. It was the following day, and I was on a walk with Rhys and Aza. As we meandered around our neighborhood, I received a strong sense for how these embryos ought to be named — which was a relief, because I certainly had no ideas of my own. All I had known was that these five souls wouldn’t get direction-based names.
Just recently, I had finished listening to Imagine Heaven by John Burke — and, in this moment, I realized that “imagining heaven” was exactly what I should do for these particular embryos. If we accepted this match, we knew that some [or all] of the embryos would be going straight to their afterlife — without an intervening pit stop on earth.
And so, as my children played, I came up with this list of heaven-related names:
Aurelius (or Aurelia) — “golden” (Revelation 21:21)
Sapphirus (or Sapphira) — “sapphire” (Exodus 24:10)
Iris — “rainbow” (Revelation 4:3)
Caelestis — “heavenly”
Aetherea (or Aetherius) — “ethereal”
This list was inescapably bittersweet, with each name an unsubtle reminder of the statistics we faced.
‘The Heavenly Quintet’, I thought. Because most — or all — are headed straight there.
Even so, I believed it was deeply important that these embryos each be named: both for my sake (to remind me of their humanity) and for theirs (to bear into eternity). I refused to let these souls be like the miscarried sister from Heaven is for Real — the one who was nameless in heaven, because her parents hadn’t named her before she died.
[Note: Yes… it is highly likely — or perhaps even probable — that the genetic parents had already named these embryos. Even so, I decided that no harm lay in giving them yet another name. Such was the case, after all, for Peter/Cephas, Saul/Paul, Joses/Barnabas, etc.]
By the following day, we saw no reason for further delay. After all, what could change? We had already agreed that our default would be “yes”; we had no revelatory urging toward choosing “no”; and now, we even had individual names.
Thus, we confidently — if unenthusiastically — accepted the match.
And then… we waited. Despite submitting our acceptance on a Wednesday, we didn’t hear back from Snowflakes for the remainder of the week.
The waiting weighed on me as nothing else did. It felt darkly hilarious that, faced with the inevitable loss of at least three embryos, our progress had grown to an achingly slow crawl.
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing / And the first motion, all the interim is / Like a phantasm or a hideous dream,” I grumbled as I washed dishes on Sunday night.
Taylor: <grunts sympathetically> “Still no word from Snowflakes?”
“Of course not. They’re closed on the weekend.”
“Have you emailed?”
I sighed heavily. “No, but I’ll do that tonight. Hopefully they’ll respond first thing in the morning.”
To their credit, they did — but it was not with news that I wanted to hear.
We haven’t heard back from your fertility clinic yet, and we can’t move forward until they review the embryology report and accept the potential match. Can you contact them to find out what’s going on?
Great — diplomacy. My strongest skillset.
I wasn’t even certain why I so dreaded the looming phone call. After all, the issue was undoubtedly just a backlog of paperwork. I mean, sure — the clinic had always been lightning-quick with their responses in the past… but there’s a first time for everything, right? Regardless, I was sure there’d be an explanation — and, probably, I might even get around to calling and finding out.
And then — coincidentally — I got the perfect opportunity.
It was Monday, March 11 — the day after Daylight Savings. Inexplicably, though, instead of napping a hour late, Rhys was suddenly ready for his nap… an hour early. I sensed the hand of God behind the scenes, and I dutifully followed His lead. Rhys went down without complaint — and with Bo and Aza each at school, I was unexpectedly and inexcusably free.
Even so, I still briefly considered shirking the impending conversation altogether. I hadn’t spoken to my assigned nurse in a while, and I felt uncomfortable contacting her under such impolite circumstances. Hey — what gives? You guys are holding up the train!
Even so, I knew that this, surely, was my opportunity — so I quietly prayed, “Oh Lord, please help me. You know I’m not a diplomat. Please give me the words to say, and to not say. Please give me grace in her eyes.”
Nurse Theresa answered my call on the second ring. I awkwardly re-introduced myself — since, truly, it had been a while — and then I cut to the chase.
“My adoption clinic should have sent over an embryology report,” I said, “but they haven’t yet heard back from the clinic. So, I was just wondering if y’all had received the report? And if so, if there was any other information you needed from me?”
Theresa was silent for a few seconds, and I could sense that she was carefully crafting the perfect Midwestern response. Finally, she stated, “We did receive that embryology report—”
“Oh, good!” I cut in. “Then I imagine the approval is on its way, right?”
“—but we decided to decline those embryos,” Theresa finished.
Normally, when I retell this story, I affect that I snapped back with something proper and witty, like, “Excuse me?” or “I’m sorry?” — but in reality, I’m pretty sure I actually sputtered something like, “Huh?” or “What? Why?”.
Whatever I said, it prompted Theresa to patiently explain, “Well, these embryos are both 2pn and slow-frozen.”
I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. She must think I’m a naïve idiot — like I have no idea what I’m asking for.
Theresa continued. “We just think that, if your goal is to have a baby at the end of this… then this isn’t the way to do it.”
I could hear the compassion in her voice — and I, myself, knew the statistics. Indeed, if our goal was to have a baby, then she was right: this was not the way to do it.
What’s your goal? I felt God ask… and that question changed everything.
In a single moment, my ambivalent resignation hardened into steely resolve. I felt the reemergence of my ultra-confrontational alter-ego — the one I [mostly] abandoned after leaving college. Now, though, it was back, and I was utterly ready to go to war.
You have no idea how hard I will die on this hill, I thought sardonically.
Taking a deep breath, I answered, “You’re right — it is our goal to have a baby at the end of this. But, it’s not our primary goal. Our primary goal is to live out the gospel by honoring the dignity and worth of every human — and in this case, that means giving these embryos a chance at life outside the freezer.”
I could hear Theresa’s shock in her careful response. “Well… I respect that, but I’m not sure that we can help you, then.”
I paused. Would I truly leave our clinic for the sake of these embryos?
They’re image-bearers, I reminded myself. And life is worth fighting for.
Plus, there was the other thing.
I named them — so while I may never be their *mother*, I am certainly meant to be their *guardian*.
So, with that in mind… I doubled down.
In clipped, sharp barbs, I retorted, “Well, if it’s truly necessary to leave this clinic, then I suppose we must. I had been quite hopeful that we could continue to work together — but now, Taylor and I will have to find another clinic that will accept these embryos. Do you happen to know of one?”
“Uh, no,” Theresa stammered. “Every clinic is different. I can’t really guess what other clinics would say.”
Unfortunately, *I* could guess. After all, we had selected this Iowa-based clinic specifically because it was so liberal with its embryological requirements. Accordingly, I doubted whether any of the Snowflakes partner clinics would accept these five siblings. Thus, while I remained willing to die on this hill, I decided to change tack… for the sake of the embryos.
“Well, before we search out a different clinic — could I at least appeal this embryo rejection?”
“The embryologist is in charge of those decisions,” Theresa demurred. “We only have one who works with slow-frozen embryos, so the choice is really up to her.”
“Is it Olga?” I snapped. “She’s the one who works with slow-frozen embryos, right?”
“Uh, yes. It’s Olga.”
“Then I’ll be sending her an email shortly,” I concluded. Then, taking a deep breath, I forcibly softened my tone. “Theresa… you know we have a high view of life. Please talk to Olga on my behalf. I think she’ll be more receptive to my appeal if she also hears from you.”
Theresa paused again — so long, I thought the call might have dropped. Finally, though, she answered, “Ok. I will.”
As I slipped my phone back into my pocket, I discovered that my hands were shaking. My combative alter-ego had disappeared — and with it, nearly all of my strength and resolve.
Instead, I silently pleaded, Oh God, please, please. I don’t know what we’ll do or where we’ll go if Olga rejects these embryos.
I quickly called Taylor — but he had nothing to add except his agreement that, yes, I ought to appeal the decision.
“I’ll take a walk right now,” he said. “And I’ll pray that she’ll change her mind.”
Thus, with shuddering breaths and quaking fingers, I pulled out my laptop, sat on the couch, and began drafting an email.
What will I even say!? I wondered. But, as I selected the recipients — both Olga and Theresa — I sensed a calm, solid presence, sitting right beside me.
“Oh, Jesus — You’re here!” I laughed with relief. “Please write this email with me!”
Write, I felt in response. I’m right here.
And so — with my big kids at school, my baby in bed, and my husband at work — I wrote. The words flowed quickly — and though I had never met Olga in person, I had the strong sense that these were the sorts of words that might actually sway her.
Finally, I sat back and proofread.
Hi Olga,
I just got off the phone with Theresa. She confirmed that your lab received the embryology reports for our potential adopted embryos from Snowflakes. She also said that, since the five embryos are 2pn and slow-frozen, the lab is planning to decline.
Thus, I am writing to you to appeal this decision. I recognize that these embryos do not meet your typical standards, and I recognize that there is a high chance for loss — both during thawing and culturing. Even so, I ask that you reconsider. My husband and I have a high view of life and desire to give these embryos their best (and, indeed, their only) chance at life — even if it means that we don’t end up with a baby at the end of the process. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.
However, if your decision is firm, then maybe you can recommend a different clinic? One that would be willing to thaw and culture these little embryos, even if they have little chance at life outside the womb?
Thank you for your time,
Holly
Before I lost my nerve, I hit Send. My hands were still shaking, but the ball was now decidedly out of my court.
My subsequent prayers were fragmented and barely coherent. I begged that God would soften Olga’s heart and give us grace in her eyes… and I wondered how long I’d be relegated to this self-imposed limbo.
You know, you *could* just give up this set of embryos, a voice whispered in my mind. The next adopting family might have more luck.
But that supposal lead to an immediate dead end. Yes, but what if they *don’t*? If *our* clinic won’t take these embryos, whose *will*? And if *I* don’t fight for these babies, who *will*?
Thus, I was back to begging God to soften Olga’s heart and allow my words to change her mind.
Now, I don’t know exactly what happened behind the scenes — what God did, and what Theresa said, and what Olga thought. All I know is, a mere twelve minutes later, I received this reply:
Hi Holly,
We will accept the embryos since you are accepting this risk. I emailed Snowflakes to let them know of the change.
Olga
My relief defied description. I could barely call and update Taylor through my tears.
Unavoidable loss still lay ahead — but my conscience was now clear. Come what may, I could guarantee that these embryos would get the chance they deserved.
Of course, the process was certainly more involved than just sending that single email to Olga. For one, we needed to sign a contract detailing the transfer of “property” from the genetic parents to Taylor and me. Fortunately, said contract was facilitated by Snowflakes; unfortunately, said contract also needed to be notarized.
“It’ll be ironic when our genetic children prevent us from acquiring our adopted children,” I muttered to Taylor as the harried FedEx notary before us valiantly struggled through the prolonged puerile cacophony. Short of physically putting my hand over Bo’s mouth, there was little we could do to tame our unusually naughty kids.
At that moment, the woman looked up. “Wait — this is a contract for you to adopt more children?”
I smeared on a comforting rictus. “Yes.”
She stared for a few beats before recovering her professional demeanor. “Um, then I’ll just need each of you to sign right here.”
A few torturous minutes later, we were on our way back to the car — lighter by one contract and quite a few dollars.
“Well, at least that was the easy part,” Taylor remarked.
I threw my head back and laughed… because he was right.
So what was the hardest part? Well, on its face, it’s the part that sounds the easiest: that is, passively waiting for things to happen.
You see, there’s a whole process to adopting embryos. Our alacrity affected the timing of certain portions thereof, such as the contracts phase. Other aspects, however, remained entirely unmoved by our fervor.
One such piece was the shipping phase. Our clinic was located in Iowa; however, our newly-adopted embryos were not. [Note: I believe they were temporarily stationed in California, at the Snowflakes embryo repository.] While I trust that the intricacies of cryogenic shipping necessitate due consideration, I was nevertheless peeved to learn that our embryos wouldn’t arrive at our clinic until April 11 — and that nothing else could be scheduled until they arrived.
In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a particularly egregious setback. At the time, though, it felt endless. Every day, Rhys grew a little older, and thus increased the age gap between him and his eventual younger sibling — a sibling who might not even result from this set of five embryos.
Thus, every delay felt particularly cruel: like everyone knew what was coming, but no one was interested in fast-forwarding to the end.
This tension only increased when the embryos finally did arrive… and their thawing was scheduled for May 30.
“Why so long?” Taylor wondered aloud, after we had put our kids to bed.
“It’s because fresh embryos necessarily have precedence in the incubator,” I explained. “Because their creation is based on whenever the mother ovulates, and those dates are scheduled out a fairly long time. I would imagine that the intervening month and a half is already fully booked.”
Taylor: <grunts in comprehension>
“So… I imagine this is genuinely the soonest availability for the incubator,” I concluded.
Taylor: <grunts in agreement>
However, even knowing the reason for the wait, I wasn’t happy about it. “You know… I trained for a full marathon in this period of time.”
“Hmm, really,” Taylor blandly acknowledged.
“Well, no. It was actually fifty days, not forty-nine days. And, I had already done a half-marathon, so I wasn’t exactly starting from scratch.”
Taylor: <grunts in mock amazement>
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for that. I’m just saying… like, if we’re doomed to walk into a total loss, I just wish it was sooner than later. Like, we can’t even go back into the adoption pool until all of this set dies.”
Taylor: <grunts admonishingly> “Wifey, we don’t know that they’re all going to die.”
I swiped at unexpected tears. “I know, I just — actually, you’re right: I don’t know. I mean, I just feel like… well, I just feel so hopeless.”
Taylor: <grunts sympathetically>
“Like, what good is dying on principle? We look like total fools.”
Taylor shrugged. “We look like people who believe in the value of God-given life.”
“We look like people who are throwing away their children’s college funds for the sake of embryos who have no chance at life!”
Taylor turned abruptly to look me full in the face. “Really? You would have chosen paying for Aza’s college tuition over giving these embryos a chance at life?”
I thought back to my conversation with Theresa. Our primary goal is to live out the gospel by honoring the dignity and worth of every human.
“Could you have done that?” Taylor pressed.
“No,” I whispered. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think so.”
My tears flowed freely as I ordered my thoughts. Finally, I stammered, “How could I — who have been so loved — refuse then to share that love? Jesus looked at me — when *I* was worthless — and gave me dignity, love, and worth. How could I then turn to these embryos and say, ‘Oh, *I* get dignity, love, and worth — but you don’t. Someone loved me when *I* was worthless — but *you* don’t get love, because your embryology report still says that *you’re* worthless.’”
Taylor gave me a sad smile. “I know your heart. You couldn’t do that.”
I blew out a shuddering sigh in response.
“So stop raging against the machine,” Taylor insisted. “I know you’re scared — but being angry isn’t gonna help. And it’s also not gonna make the time go by any faster.”
“Yeah. I know you’re right.”
Truly, it felt like nothing made those seven weeks pass by any faster. It didn’t matter that it was the end of the school year — that I was up to my eyeballs in baptism stories and floral events and clothing swap responsibilities and birthday celebrations and half a dozen other things. No matter the task before me, I was constantly strangled by the same anxiety.
What will happen to the Heavenly Quintet?
The closer the thaw date approached, the more I became convinced of two things:
1) If any of the embryos survived, it would be Caelestis, followed by Aurelius. I could perceive no possible earthside future for Iris, Sapphirus, or Aetherea. Even so…
2) Absolutely none of the embryos would survive.
The worst part about my convictions was that I simply couldn’t trust them. At this point in the story, I was so close to the page that I couldn’t distinguish between shadow and ink.
I was more sure, at least, about the first assertion. After all, “Caelestis” wouldn’t have been *my* top choice from our list of names — so I had some confidence that I was hearing from God on that one.
But the second? I had no idea. I couldn’t tell if I was hearing something — or just fearing something. Either way, the anxiety consumed me. The parasite felt so physical, I marveled that others couldn’t see it wrapped around my throat.
Sometimes, things were better — like at our church’s quarterly prayer and worship night.
Admittedly, it started off pretty badly — like, I was so dominated by anxiety that I sank into a full-fledged panic attack. I knew I needed to pray, but I was too spiritually and emotionally weak to do so.
But then, a fellow church member was there, having sought me out from across the sanctuary. I can only assume that God Himself sent her, because she proceeded to offer the most powerful prayer that I have ever personally heard. Inexplicably, my uncontrollable sobs dried up in a single breath, and I literally felt a weight being removed from my shoulders.
Yes, literally — as in, I actually turned around to see who had done such heavy lifting. I felt like an idiot as I realized, Oh duh, it was Jesus! But wait… how did my anxiety have *physical mass*?
Even though I still don’t have a “logical” answer to that last question, it’s indisputable that that moment, at least, served as timely and much-needed encouragement: a gently sloping downhill in our metaphorical marathon.
Other times, though, were significantly harder — like when I went to Iowa to get my required sonohysterogram.
Don’t know what a sonohysterogram is? Yeah… most people don’t. Here’s the reader’s digest: In this procedure, the uterus is filled with saline via a catheter inserted through the cervix, and then ultrasound imaging is used to determine the condition of the uterine lining.
Yes, this ordeal is unavoidably uncomfortable for a prude like me. (Thankfully, though, it’s not associated with much physical discomfort.)
But beyond the shame of nudity — something which I swear I will never get past — there was also the shame of my continued naïveté. (Or, at least, that’s how the clinic viewed it.)
“Um… don’t you want to wait until you know if any of the embryos actually survive?” Theresa asked as I booked the appointment.
I gritted my teeth, but forced calm into my voice. “No. We recognize that this might be a waste of time and money, should all five embryos perish. However, if any of them do survive, then we’d want to schedule our embryo transfer for the following cycle.”
That reason was true — but so was its macabre corollary: Because even if an embryo survives thawing and culturing — but then the *embryo transfer* doesn’t work — we’d want to get back into the adoption pool as soon as possible. Time’s a-wastin’, lady.
“And your partner clinic in Denver won’t do a sonohysterogram for you?” Theresa clarified.
“Uh, no. The receptionist made extremely clear that sonohysterograms are for ‘in-house’ clients, only — and never, ever, ever for outside-monitoring patients.”
“Even though you’d be paying out-of-pocket…? It would seem to me like — but you know what, nevermind. If you need us to accommodate you here, then we’ll absolutely find the time.”
Which was a relief, because I did need that accommodation.
The appointment itself went fine — although it was a wonder that we all had enough space to maneuver, given the size of the elephant in that room. Theresa didn’t try again to dissuade me — since I was, after all, already in Iowa — but she pronounced the word “if” as though it were rendered in size seventy-two font, with an extra half-dozen consonants.
“IFFFFFFF any of the embryos survive the thaw. IFFFFFFF any of those survivors develop into blastocysts. IFFFFFFF we have reason to see you back here next month.”
I’m not great at keeping a poker face, but I nevertheless hoped she couldn’t perceive the exact tenor of my corresponding mental dialogue.
She thinks I’m. Such. An. Idiot. Oh yeah? Well, when Caelestis survives, *then* who’s going to look like the idiot? You — ha! Ugh… who am I kidding. This *is* a waste of time and money. But, at least it’s a nice little experience for Taylor to stay home with the kids.
So yeah. That was one of my lower moments.
But the lowest moment of all… came during the thaw.
Thursday, May 30 was a cruelly glorious spring day. The sweetly dazzling vernal sun; the charmingly industrious honeybees; the timidly gorgeous wildflowers. Everything felt so satirically tone-deaf… because today was a day of death.
I wasn’t sure what time the embryos would be thawed. I assumed it was in the morning — but I also knew that I wouldn’t find out any information until the clinic was ready to share.
Thus, I chose to fast that day: not because I thought it would force God’s hand — I knew it wouldn’t — but because I needed the physical reminder to pray and to lift my eyes to the Kingdom of God. Allowing myself to focus on anything else was tantamount to a full capitulation to my anxiety parasite — which, unfortunately, had made a stealthy return in the weeks since its prayer-facilitated banishment. This time, though, I needed to be diligent about offering my own prayers.
And I was — although none of them was especially eloquent or clever. Mostly, I quoted back scripture, and especially the opening lines of the Lord’s Prayer. Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done.
At its core, the day felt like a microcosm of our preceding two months: an endless wait for bad news. And, while I effectively warded off anxiety, I nevertheless succumbed to hopelessness.
Is the point just to test our obedience? I asked. For us to develop fire-refined faith, more precious than gold?
I knew those words referenced a Bible verse, although I couldn’t remember which one — and since I was driving, I couldn’t exactly look it up, either.
Oh, Lord… how can I stand before You? I continued. Look at me — I’m hungry and tired and poor.
That phrasing, too, alluded to some verse reference… although I knew I had the adjectives slightly wrong. But where was the verse? I remembered that the context was some sort of rebuke, so probably a Pauline epistle. Maybe 2 Corinthians — no, wait, Galatians? I couldn’t remember.
And when I got home, I forgot to look it up — because waiting in my inbox was this email.
Holly,
Wanted to send you a quick update on the embryo thaw this morning. Olga let me know 2 embryos have survived the thaw and now in culture. 3 did not survive the thaw.
We will be sure to give you an update next week with the results of the culture.
Thanks,
Theresa
For a few moments, I honed in on her terrible writing skills. It was easy to rage about double spaces after periods, or un-spelled-out numbers, or a sentence beginning with a numeral. Easier, at least, than coming to terms with the content of the email.
“Hey Bo,” I eventually called. “Can you turn on a show for you and your siblings? I just need a couple minutes to rest.”
“How many minutes maximum?” he bellowed back.
“Uh… fifteen?” I guessed. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Ok!”
And with that, the kids shot to the couch, while I retreated to my room and slipped into bed.
I thought about the days following Occi’s death — specifically, of an anecdote that was cut from the first draft of All’s Well that Sleeps Well. In that years-old story, while I lay crying in bed — just before Aza climbed out of her crib — I had read 1 Kings 19 and echoed Elijah’s despairing words.
I have been very zealous for the Lord… but I alone am left, and they seek my life also.
And now — more than three years later — I lay in the same bed, drowning in the same ache of isolation and hopelessness.
“Were they ever even alive?” I whimpered. “Or did they die on the way in — freezer-burnt thirteen years ago?”
No answer — just presence. I could feel sympathy… but of course, no sense of surprise.
In a way, I, too, was unsurprised. We knew the statistics: that we might get one blastocyst — or maybe two, under the very best circumstances. It would have taken a literal miracle for even three embryos to survive to blastocyst stage. Given the ordering of our names, there was basically never even a chance for Iris, Sapphirus, or Aetherea.
Even so, our original statistical estimate now seemed darkly comical. Best case is four survive the thaw. Worst case, only three.
Or, you know, just two.
“Are Caelestis and Aurelius doomed, too?” I whispered.
This time, I did get some sense of an answer. Not “yes” or “no” — either of which might have quelled my anxiety — but something like, You have to go through it.
Just like He had asked for my pregnancy with Orientalis: Do you trust that I give good gifts?
I had trusted that… eventually. But, it had taken months. (Years, really — considering all the time leading up to that pregnancy.) This time, though, I wouldn’t endure nearly so long a wait. Regardless of whether the two remaining embryos lived or died, we’d know the outcome a lot sooner — within another six days, at the very most.
[Note: While embryos ideally reach blastocyst stage on Day 5, a huge percentage actually mature on Day 6 — with a tiny fraction developing on Day 7. Any embryo that does not become a blastocyst by Day 7 has stalled out and is thus unable to produce a viable pregnancy.]
So, now, there was nothing to do but wait.
Wait, and pray.
Friday passed in a blur. We were in the opening days of summer break — early enough that I still aspired to being a “fun mom”. I brought the kids to the library — always a mistake — then retreated home to prepare a housewarming present for our church’s newly-hired church planting resident.
[Note: I figured they would get plenty of candles and baked goods, so I awkwardly packed up a bin of unglamorous essentials like detergent, soap, and toilet paper. The wife told me months later that they had just gone through the final roll of paper towels.]
Taylor came home from work early, so we had the opportunity to deliver our gift as a family.
While Borealis loudly narrated our trip to the library — with Australis contesting his every assertion — Taylor quietly murmured, “How are you doing?”
I laughed — because I had been asking myself the same question. Eventually, I answered, “I’m not totally certain. I guess I’m relieved that we don’t have to wait that much longer.”
Taylor: <grunts pensively> “If one of the embryos makes it to blastocyst, do you think it’ll implant?”
I swallowed back tears. “I don’t know. Not every blastocyst implants.”
Taylor: <grunts in resigned agreement>
“DADDY!” Borealis bellowed. “Were you even listening!?”
Taylor started. “I’m sorry, Bobhi — can you say that again?”
I passed the rest of the drive in contemplative [read: “depressed and moody”] silence, while Taylor fielded the kids’ stories about their day. When we reached the right address in Littleton, we found the church planter and his family to be perfectly lovely — but, to my dismay, *not* clairvoyant.
It was a laughable desire, and I knew it. What did I expect? Oh, we just drove our three children a thousand miles to join your church — but you clearly have something on your mind. Please, divulge your complex and muddled feelings!
Indeed, my internal world was anything but clear. I could hardly parse through my thoughts within my own head. (Although, my acrimonious children might have had something to do with the lack of meditative ambiance.)
Later, though — after pizza, and a trip to the park, and a very drawn-out bedtime — I opened up my mental box of feelings with my husband.
“I’m just… I feel like I’m sad, but I should be more sad. Like, Occi’s death was so devastating… but this isn’t. At least, not to the same extent.”
Taylor glanced over as he prepped the kids’ morning gummy vitamins. “Well… we had expected that Occi would live. We hadn’t expected that for these three.” <pause> “Or for any of them, really.”
“So then why am I sad at all?” I countered. “Shouldn’t I just be happy that they’re in heaven?”
Taylor shrugged. “Why are we ever sad about dead babies?”
“Because….” I chewed on my lip. “Because there’s some real — if intangible — value to life on earth, preceding heaven. It’s sort of the same question as, ‘Why does God facilitate human life at all?’. Like, if the entire goal was just glorified humans in heaven, then there’d be no point in the continuation of the human species. He could just as well have picked a point in history, and then had every subsequent human die in utero.”
Taylor: <grunts in somewhat mystified assent>
“‘The last enemy that will be destroyed is death,’” I quoted. “So even if the outcome is something good, the means is not.”
I watched Taylor prepare the house for the night — stowing the kids’ milk bottles in the refrigerator; locking the front and back doors; shutting the cabinets that I perpetually leave partially open. Finally, he turned to me and said, “I don’t think you have to be the same sad for every death. Yes, every human soul is worth the same in God’s eyes — but these were also total strangers to you. I definitely can’t cry the same for a stranger as I did for my mom.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think you cried exactly twice when your mom died.”
“And I cry zero times when a stranger dies. Your point?”
I leaned against him and wiped my tears against his shirt. “Besides your alexithymia? Just that I’m worried about my own heart.”
Taylor wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. “I know you’re worried that you’re gonna go stony if all of these embryos die… but I don’t think that’s the case. And, I also think it’s ok — and natural — that you’re more sad for some deaths than others.”
“But God is the same sad for every death,” I mumbled against his chest.
“But you’re not God.”
I sighed heavily. “Amen to that.”
I slept terribly that night — again — and woke even more exhausted and anxious on Saturday morning. My mind kept drifting back to the embryos as I prepared Aza for her spring ballet pictures.
That afternoon — after ballet pictures — we finally told Australis and Borealis that three of their adopted siblings had died. While Aza immediately burst into tears, Bo’s response was… slightly less empathetic.
“Oh, that’s sad,” he said. “Wait — which ones died again? And which ones are left?”
His reaction somehow made me feel even more isolated and hopeless.
We spent much of the afternoon outside — the kids, jumping on the trampoline and playing with their yard toys; Taylor and I, enduring under the Sisyphean task of garden maintenance. All the activity was certainly good for the kids — and probably for me, too, although I was once again disoriented by the dissonance between the heartbreakingly beautiful day and the heartbreakingly tragic loss of life.
“It feels like there should be storm clouds,” I muttered to Taylor.
Taylor: <grunts confusedly>
“Because the weather right now feels so happy and peppy. It’s totally the wrong vibe.”
Taylor: <grunts in understanding> “But great for yardwork.”
I rolled my eyes in response — although, to be fair, he was correct. In fact, the day was so opportune for yardwork, he decided to employ the evening to that effect, as well.
“I’m gonna go mow the yard,” he said as we kissed the boys goodnight.
“Right now!?” I clarified. “It’s, like, seven-thirty!”
He glanced at his phone. “I’ve still got, like, an hour before sunset. And then a half-hour of civil twilight. But I have to start now.”
And with that, he departed — off to go fulfill his dreams of mowing productivity.
“Oh man, that’s going to be so loud!” Bo complained.
I glanced over at Rhys, who appeared mere seconds away from sleep. I suspected that, in the other room, Aza was likewise already on her way to the Land of Nod. “I think it’s gonna be fine,” I told Borealis.
“But the mowing will keep me from falling asleep!”
“Look — if you’re still awake in twenty minutes, then come out and get me, ok?”
I could see the cogs turning in my son’s head. Was this a fair deal or not? Finally, he agreed, “Ok, I will.”
And then he set about figuring out what time was twenty minutes away. I left him to his mental math — and imminent sleep — and egressed to the kitchen.
“How are there so many dishes?” I wondered aloud. “We were outside the whole day!”
But I was alone in the house — so no one answered.
Well… I wasn’t exactly alone. I could sense that, in the silence, Jesus was present. I felt both comforted… and frustrated.
“I don’t love that You’re making me go through this,” I snapped.
I didn’t immediately listen for an answer — although, I did immediately feel bad. Yes, yes — obviously there’s the aspects of, you know, omniscience/omnipotence/omnipresence/perfect benevolence, etc. Never really “appropriate” to get snippy with the Triune God — as though I ever had a proper case against Him.
Right now, though, I was moved less by my awareness of His transcendence and more by all the memories of His closeness. I thought about how He had mourned with us as we buried Occi, or how He had held my hand throughout my pregnancy with Rhys.
“I trust You,” I finally murmured. “Even if this feels pointless — like a waste of time, and energy, and so much money.”
I had been praying for days, and I always knew of Jesus’s closeness — but now, I was suddenly desperate to feel that closeness, too. I paused my work with the dishes to turn on the Citizens song In Tenderness. I sang along as the tune reached its chorus.
“Oh, the love that sought me! Oh, the blood that bought me! Oh, the grace that brought me to the fold of God… Grace that brought me to the fold of God.”
And then came the second verse.
“He died for me while I was sinning — needy and poor and blind.”
That was it — the verse I couldn’t place. I had known it wasn’t “hungry and tired and poor”; now, though, I could actually track down the reference.
It’s time, I felt Jesus say — and I knew He was right.
I blew out a deep breath, dried my hands, and paused the song. “Alright, final guesses?” I asked myself. “Galatians or 2 Corinthians?”
But, it was neither of those. When I looked up that specific phrase, I realized why I hadn’t been able to place the verse. It was Revelation 3:17 — in Jesus’s letter to the church of the Laodiceans.
“Ok, straight-up, I do not love this,” I said to Him. “You weren’t, like, happy with them!”
Just read it.
And so, I did — speeding through the opening verse (“to the church of Laodicea, from Jesus”), then coming to His brutal assessment thereof.
“‘I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot. I could wish you were cold or hot. So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.’”
I paused to wipe away my sudden tears.
It’s not this part, I felt Him say. This isn’t you anymore.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed — but I was nevertheless grieved, because His implication was accurate: that used to be me… not so long ago. Before I could sink too deeply into past regrets, though, my Lord interrupted with another command.
Keep reading.
I was startled by the clarity of His instruction. My spiritual hearing is always relatively strong — but this was downright uncanny. Tonight, our conversation felt nearly face-to-face — and I could tell that it was leading somewhere important.
Thus, I took a deep breath and continued. “‘Because you say, “I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing” — and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked—’”
My voice broke. “Oh, Lord, I do know it! That’s exactly what I am.” I took in a shuddering breath, then continued. “This is breaking me. Is our calling truly to burn up all our resources — just to shepherd dead babies into heaven!?”
So, *so* gently, Jesus repeated, Keep reading.
I could barely whisper the next line. “‘I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich—’”
That’s what you’re doing right now.
I started to shake. The message was so clear, it was nearly audible. But could He really mean…?
You can’t see that you’re becoming rich — but *I can*.
And if I was broken before… now, I was shattered.
I collapsed to the floor of my kitchen, crying like I hadn’t cried in months — finally releasing all the tears I had yearned in vain to cry for my lost embryos.
There was so much in those words. I see you. I see what you’re doing. I know that this is hard, and it *is* worth it — but it doesn’t feel like it’s worth it because you feel like you’re wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked. But you know what *I* see? I see that it *is* worth it, and that you *are* becoming rich. You can’t see it right now… but you will one day.
It was everything I had needed to hear. If Jesus thought this was a worthwhile pursuit, then I could choose to ignore everyone else’s opinions. And, if our obligation was simply to walk in obedience, then I could trust that God would orchestrate our path… no matter the outcome.
I still felt broken — but in a way that somehow made me more whole. I had finally let go of my own strength, and now I could totally trust in God’s provision.
Only time would tell what that provision might be.
Things were different after my encounter with Jesus.
The following morning, at church, we asked a few friends to pray for our situation. No one understood it completely — but most tried to, and everyone promised to pray, at least.
Then, that afternoon, I got another word from God.
About a week previously, I had started a second batch of basil seedlings. (Our first batch was already transplanted into the ground… but I wanted more.) However, despite my years of experience growing the plant, every basil seed had remained stubbornly dormant: not one had sprouted.
Until Sunday afternoon, that is. As I surveyed my seed tray for the umpteenth time, I finally noticed a single, tiny seedling.
“Just one!?” I spluttered.
Not every seed sprouts, I felt God the Father respond… and I could tell that He wasn’t talking only about the basil seeds.
My emotions immediately rose. “But some doI” I protested. “Not every seed sprouts, but some do — and I ask that ours would.”
But some do, I felt in agreement — and I got a sense that He was proud of my insistence.
“You are the God of life,” I continued. “I know that we live in a fallen world, and not every seed sprouts. But some… do.”
I clung to that fact — and that prayer — for the rest of the day, and into the following day as well. Monday morning was Bo’s first day of sports camp — as featured in The Summer of Mathletics. All the hubbub helped distract me from the ongoing embryo culture… but only slightly.
As the day wore on, I very keenly felt the ambiguous duality of the phrase “no news is good news”. In its more common reading, the aphorism affirms that “the absence of news is, itself, a good sign”. In its darker light, however, it says that “no piece of news is welcome” — or, rather, “all news is bad news”.
Indeed, both interpretations felt equally apt in this context. The fact that I didn’t hear from Theresa suggested that the embryos had survived the weekend; even so, I was wholly convinced that the impending update would be unwelcome.
Alas — that update did not come Monday evening, or even Tuesday morning. By the time we picked up Bo from sports camp, I could think of nothing but the imminent missive. I literally had to set a timer to stop myself from checking email every five minutes — and I kept up a near-constant litany of prayer.
“Not all seeds sprout, but some do. Not all seeds sprout, but some do. Oh, Lord, please. Some do.”
I think the kids could probably sense my anxiety. Well, not Bo — he was too busy telling us about his ostensibly excellent football debut. I remained dubious.
Thankfully, I had the perfect method to distract from my moodiness (and from football) — because, against my better judgment, we were on our way to the Denver Zoo.
Why would we possibly return to the ill-fated site of our Z is for Zoo misadventure? Well, that morning, a mom acquaintance had unexpectedly offered me tickets to the institution — and while I was loath to accept, I was even more loath to decline. (Communicating my disdain for the zoo would have done little to improve our often tense relationship.)
Thus, I found myself pulling into the parking lot and unloading my kids onto the scalding pavement. I stuck Rhys in the back carrier, shuttled Bo and Aza to the ticket booth, pulled open my inbox—
—and saw the email.
This time, the information was directly from Olga. Without opening the email, I could see only the first line:
Good Afternoon Holly, We were able to fre…
“Tickets?” the zoo attendant asked.
Tickets? What does she need tickets for? I wondered numbly. Finally, though, her question sank in, and I mumbled, “Uh. Yeah. Give me a second.”
My mind raced as I mechanically located the relevant forwarded email.
Surely, “fre…” is the beginning of “freeze” — right? At the very least, “able to” is better than “unable to” — right? But still….
“Great — got ‘em all,” the attendant finally said. “Enjoy your time at the zoo!”
“Thanks,” I replied — in lieu of “I won’t”, which probably would have been a little too honest.
As Rhys bounced around in the back carrier, I herded my big kids toward the large map just inside the gates. “Ok, Bo, figure out where we should go.”
He and Aza started arguing over the map — of course — while Rhys occasionally threw out his own opinion.
“The polar bear!” “The giraffes!” “The lions!”
I, meanwhile, returned to the fateful email.
Good Afternoon Holly,
We were able to freeze one embryo on day 5. The other embryo was a low quality blastocyst today, so we are not able to freeze the second embryo. Let me know if you have any questions.
Olga
My kids’ argument faded to static, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Goodbye, Aurelius,” I whispered. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
Was there anything else I could have done to save him? I didn’t think so. I had previously urged Olga to be as lenient as possible — but she had insisted that she could not [or would not] adjust her clinical practices, beyond a certain point.
And Aurelius? Well, I guess he fell below that point.
Not every seed sprouts, I remembered sadly.
But Caelestis… Caelestis had sprouted. That embryo was still alive. Refrozen, yes — but just waiting to be woken once more: this time, never to be frozen again.
My reverie was suddenly interrupted by a grubby toddler hand. “Mommy, why you crying?” Rhys asked.
I swatted away his hand and lied, “Mommy’s fine. Ok, we just have to make a decision and start walking — so let’s do the giraffes first, then the polar bear, then the lions.” I squinted at the map, then amended, “Or whatever order they’re in.”
And so, we started walking.
It was just before 2pm, and the late-spring heat felt newly oppressive. I caved almost immediately to a request for Dippin’ Dots — which was, I knew, the real reason for Bo’s excitement.
Minutes later, I watched my kids artlessly scatter ice cream pellets across our once-clean table. Maybe half of the treat actually made it into their mouths. I sighed with annoyance — but at least I had thought to bring a pack of wet wipes. In the meantime, though, my thoughts continuously circled back to Caelestis.
Day 5 *is* a good sign, I hesitantly admitted — as though acknowledging that piece of good news might condemn me to the naïve belief that things might finally take a turn for the better.
However, the fact was indisputable: statistically, Caelestis now had about 50/50 chances of survival — if not slightly better. And, while the final outcome remained shrouded in mystery, one other thing was certain.
It was time for us to retrieve our sole remaining embryo.
[A Comically Abridged Version of] Act V
Of course, retrieving that embryo was easier said than done.
Once again, it involved an intolerably long wait — but since the nitty-gritty details of those weeks are mostly unnecessary, I’ll do my best to keep things high-level. Suffice it to say, though, that my experience was greatly worsened by having to work with a partner clinic, here in Denver. I’ll call it “Cherry Creek Clinic”.
So why did I need a Denver-based partner clinic? Because of a medical term called synchrony. (Cue another [dramatically oversimplified] summary.)
Here’s the gist of the concept: Since a blastocyst is roughly five days old, it expects to implant into a uterine lining that is also roughly five days old: that is, a uterine lining that is approximately five days past ovulation — the point at which an egg is released. It doesn’t especially matter that the implanting blastocyst is not formed from that ovulation’s particular egg; it just matters that the blastocyst finds the expected uterine lining, and the uterine lining receives the expected blastocyst. Thus, the chief metric for ensuring synchrony is to identify the exact date of ovulation.
Typically, this identification is an extremely simple task. Within the fertility world, it is most common to do what’s called a programmed cycle (or medicated cycle). This method employs artificial hormones to override the body’s natural cycle and force it to ovulate on a specific day. It’s essentially just intense hormonal birth control.
This practice is industry standard: for convenience of timing, certainly — but often for medical reasons, as well. With regard to the latter: many a woman ends up in the fertility world specifically because her body is unable to cycle normally. In many of these cases, the most sustainable, long-term option is to identify and treat the underlying source of infertility through an approach called “restorative reproductive medicine”. However, since this holistic method can be time-consuming and frustrating, it’s often easier to opt for the artificial hormones of a programmed cycle. This method can typically force the woman’s body into performing as needed — even though it doesn’t actually fix or heal the underlying problem.
So, given the ubiquity of the programmed cycle, did I assent accordingly? Ha — of course not! That would have been way too easy.
To my credit, I genuinely tried to make peace with the idea. In fact, I even got on board with the prescribed progesterone — which essentially acts like a small trampoline boost to one’s own cycle. (That is, it does little to change the pacing of the body’s natural rhythm.) Best of all, I found the data for progesterone-facilitated “luteal-phase support” to be quite encouraging — most specifically, that LPS correlates with an increase in live birth rates.
However, try as I might, I simply *could not* talk myself into accepting the estrogen — which functions less like a trampoline boost and more like a remote-controlled jetpack. Ready or not, here ovulation comes!
I became increasingly unsettled by the idea — until, finally, I stumbled across one particular meta-study. The analysis showed that, while the clinical rates of pregnancy were the same for programmed and natural cycles, the rate of losing that pregnancy was higher with a programmed cycle.
“Oh, heck that,” I told Taylor. “I have no interest in attaining a pregnancy that I can’t keep. Been there, done that, didn’t like the T-shirt.”
So, long story short, I threw down on doing a natural cycle frozen embryo transfer, with luteal phase support. (In the fertility world, this method has the catchy title “NC-FET with LPS”… which really rolls off the tongue.)
Nurse Theresa and Dr. Clive — while annoyed — were nevertheless accommodating. After all, I didn’t actually need a programmed cycle — and I wasn’t their only “natural cycle client”, either. Plus, with the ClearBlue Advanced Digital Ovulation Test, we still had a high likelihood of getting the synchrony right.
Theresa explained that, once the ClearBlue test indicated that I was ovulating, I would need clinical confirmation — which consisted of a blood test and a transvaginal ultrasound. (Yippee — my favorite!)
And this was where things hit a snag. With a programmed cycle, it’s very easy to schedule clinical confirmation of ovulation: it’s just whatever day the hormones dictate ovulation should occur. With a natural cycle, however, things can vary by a number of days in each direction. Alas, I had neither the desire nor ability to linger in Des Moines for however long it took for me to ovulate. Thus, I needed to seek more accessible assistance from Cherry Creek Clinic, instead.
Unfortunately, I quickly found that the Denver-based institution was not especially eager to help me. (Really, the sonohysterogram incident should have tipped me off.)
[Author’s Note: I had many issues with this clinic — and originally, this section featured a Festivus-esque airing of grievances thereof. However, Taylor eventually convinced me to excise that long list of complaints.
“I mean, yes, Wifey — they totally sucked. But is that actually the point of this story?”
It took a couple tries… but I finally guessed that the correct answer was “no”.]
In the end, though, I successfully acquired the necessary ovulation check, on the proper day — despite the receptionist’s seemingly personal animosity against me. I eventually circumvented her “help” by driving directly to the clinic and acquiring assistance from someone else.
Once Theresa received my lab results — later than requested, because Cherry Creek Clinic was unhurriable — she scheduled my embryo transfer for the morning of Thursday, June 27.
Our plans came together quickly: my mother graciously offered to watch our already-born kids; we found appropriate Airbnb and Turo rentals; and we selected our flights.
And then… we waited. (Again.)
I prayed — a lot — just as I had preceding the thaw and culture. This time, though, I struggled even more with hopelessness.
Have You brought us this far, just to let Caelestis die now? I wondered. Is the goal for this embryo to live, or for us to trust and love You well? Are those goals mutually exclusive — or can we have both?
Once again, God’s response was something akin to, I’m not going to tell you; you have to go through it. Choose to trust Me.
And I did — in the sense that I believed He truly orchestrates all things together for the furthering of His Kingdom, of which I am an adopted member. I had utterly zero doubts that — in the long-term — God’s plan for me would be for His glory and my good.
However, I had many doubts that — in the short-term — His plan would feel good.
But, my misgivings did nothing to prevent the passage of time — and, sooner than I expected, Tuesday had arrived. I drove the kids (and dog) to my parents’ house around midday, before returning home to finish packing.
More than just laundry lay in wait for me, though. In the stillness of my house, my fears — and tears — were freshly unavoidable.
“I am going to fly out there and get this embryo — and then it’s going to die,” I sobbed. “We will literally be back at square one. You’ll have another soul in heaven, but we’ll have nothing to show for this. Caelestis will die in silence.”
I was suddenly unable to acquire enough oxygen. I set the laundry down and hurried outside — where, of course, my fears immediately followed.
“At what point do we give up? When Rhys is already in elementary school? Before then? I’m setting aside my entire life for dead babies!”
I could feel God’s presence, but no new word. Choose to trust Me.
“I am tragically resigned to this fate!” I shot back. “I think ‘peaceful trust’ is a bridge too far right now.”
I was being a brat, and I knew it — but God was gentle. No smiting; just comforting presence.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please let Caelestis live.”
What else could I say? I had never felt so incredibly alone. No one whom I knew could do more than just strain and guess at the emotions roiling in my chest. I mean, if even *I* couldn’t put words to them… how could anyone else?
Taylor eventually came home — but he, likewise, was heavy with unspoken words. My husband is laconic at the best of times — but when he’s chewing on something especially difficult, he becomes a silent hurricane. His thoughts nearly knocked me over with their intensity.
But, we went through the motions — packing, and cleaning, and injecting my butt with progesterone, and otherwise preparing for the following day’s flight.
I’ll skip over our travel woes — which included a multi-hour diversion to Houston — and say simply that we *eventually* made it to our Airbnb in Des Moines.
As we settled into bed, I asked, “Can we pray?”
Taylor scoffed. “Have we ever stopped!?”
“Uh, I guess not. But maybe out loud, this time.”
We woke early the following morning — and prayed again, of course. We praised God for being the author of life, and we petitioned Him to prosper little Caelestis — that the embryo would successfully transfer, implant, and grow.
Such prayers were necessary to reframe our mindsets and refocus on the One in charge… but admittedly, they had started to feel stale. After all, there’s only *so* many different ways to say, Please let Caelestis live.
But what might be the outcome of such prayers? Though our appointment was mere hours away, the answer nevertheless felt comically unreachable… because so many steps lay between Caelestis and life outside the womb. Today, however, we would know only one thing: whether the embryo survived its second thaw.
Given the statistics for vitrification, “survival” was the most likely outcome… but even so, we continued to pray.
And guess what? Caelestis did survive the thaw.
We flew back to Colorado a few hours after the embryo transfer. Once we landed, we retrieved our kids and returned home.
And then, we prayed — and waited — some more.
A week later, the *very faintest* line showed up on an at-home pregnancy test. The following week, a serial hCG blood test confirmed that my body believed itself to be pregnant.
This news was both excellent and terrible.
Excellent — because Caelestis was alive! The embryo had successfully implanted into my uterine lining, and it was growing and maturing into a little fetus.
But, also terrible — because to lose the baby now would mean another miscarriage — something I dreaded more than I could say.
Yes, every life is worth the same — but as Taylor pointed out, not every death hits us in the same way. I knew that losing an implanted Caelestis would feel so much worse than losing Sapphirus, Iris, Aetherea, or even Aurelius. I mourned — and still mourn — those little lives… but their deaths were completely outside of my control. However, to lose an implanted Caelestis would be the same as losing Occidentalis: I would always feel at least partially culpable.
But then, in August, we saw something that we had never seen for Occi: a heartbeat.
A heartbeat! It was unmitigated good news. So… did my anxiety finally go away?
No, not completely. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll ever banish it fully… because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that I’m not in control, and I’m not the Author of my story.
However, I am the main character. (Of my own story, that is. Obviously, not of the big, overarching Story, which stars Jesus.) Thus, while it is not my job to control those things which lay completely out of my reach, it is my job to do the “main character” things.
In this case, that meant acting (and praying) for a future in which Caelestis would live — not just in my womb, but outside of it, too. I didn’t yet fully believe in that future… but every day that went by, it became a little easier to act with the faith that that future would come to pass.
That was especially true in November, when Caelestis revealed himself to be a perfectly healthy, happy baby boy.
A few months later, I got my fourth henna belly — this time, a tiger.
And now? Well, after a prayerful, painful, breathlessly long wait…
Caelestis Ray has begun his earthside adventure.