“It’s probably best that you weren’t spending a lot of time at my apartment in late 2009. Though certainly we would have watched “The Bachelor” and feasted on my primary food groups — omelets, mixed nuts and hot chocolate — you would have also witnessed an alarming number of predawn panic attacks.
Again and again I’d wake at 3 a.m. with a racing heart and clenched stomach, worrying: What if it never happens? What if I don’t find the right guy? What if it happens too late?
I was 30, single and working as the wedding reporter for The Washington Post. A few months earlier I’d gone through a breakup on the same day I was hired for this most amorous of newspaper beats. It was a perfect cliche-and-Chardonnay-filled storm.
I spent my days immersed in the glories of other people’s wedded bliss — and my nights staring out at my fire escape, distraught that I might never experience lasting love.
If you’d been around, you probably would’ve offered me a Xanax, patted my head and told me to go back to sleep. But you weren’t, and the night terrors only increased. So that’s how, one year later, I came to be in a hospital gown in a nondescript Rockville, Md., office building, waiting for some people I’d never met to reach into my ovaries and suction out the choicest of my hormone-ripened eggs. All for the low, low price of $10,000.
Apple’s and Facebook’s announcements that they will pay for employees to freeze their eggs have provoked a lot of hand-wringing about women and careers and having-not-having-it-all. But for me, the decision to put my fertility on ice had nothing to do with professional ambition or putting off motherhood. It was a quest to preserve my sanity. Read rest of article………..