That night I drove out to Irvine, California, to do two stand-up shows. Halfway through the second show, I suddenly felt an intense stabbing on either side of my lower stomach. There was a minute there where I was sure I was actually in labor and was perhaps having an “I didn’t know I was pregnant” type situation on my hands. Adrenaline and audience laughter anesthetized me enough to get me through it, but once I got in the car, the only thing I could do was scream at the windshield and tell myself what my way-too-intense-for-nine-in-the-morning Spinning class instructor yells in my face a lot: “Pain is temporary!”
I texted a friend who had frozen her eggs before. I asked her if I was dying and she responded, “Did your doctor tell you to ‘take it easy’?” I racked my brain. All I could remember anyone saying was “good for you.” Turns out, her doctor told her to take it easy as well, and she’s employed and has dreams too, so the same thing happened to her.
I had hyperstimulation, which is when the holes in your ovaries from the extractions fill up with water, then swell up. “You’re supposed to be on bed rest,” she said. I texted another girlfriend. Same thing. She told me to cancel all my plans for the next three days and to waste no time purchasing a laxative.
It was then I realized that the generation of women I’m proud to be a part of have no idea how to “take it easy.” Women have had to “take it easy” for thousands of years. We’ve been on involuntary bed rest for most of the time and we’re kind of over it. We’re off the bench and ready to play. I realized the exact qualities that put me in the position of needing to freeze my eggs were the qualities that were making the procedure so harrowing. Even within my surrendering to my biology, I refused to surrender to my biology. I wanted to live life my way, have kids my way, freeze my eggs my way.
In a deep twist of irony, the only relief from the severe abdominal pain was lying in the fetal position. As I lay there, I moaned and whimpered and cursed Dr. Dong among pretty much anyone else I could think of: my parents for having me, my ex-boyfriends for not being father material, whatever incarnation of God I was believing in at the time, Dr. Dong for not coming over and giving me more of that Michael Jackson–y painkiller reality-eraser stuff.
I had to cancel the next night’s show. It was heartbreaking. I know that canceling a show doesn’t sound like a big deal and you probably think I’m being dramatic and victimy, but I take people’s buying tickets to come see a show very seriously. As I’ve told you, I’ve encountered sexist treatment before, but this is the first time my own body was the one doing the sexist, discriminating behavior. I called my therapist, who as you know by now always cuts right through my ego and entitlement: “Get over it. You didn’t settle for a bad marriage. You didn’t have a kid before you were ready. You can afford to freeze your eggs. This is not a real problem.” Well, there you have it. I had become so spoiled by the fruits of feminism and modern technology that having pain from a fertility-prolonging procedure had become something to complain about.
I learned from this that I needed to get some goddamn perspective about and gratitude for the time I was born into. Yes, it’s very annoying to have a body that has an expiration date, but it’s insane not to acknowledge the progress science has made. I also can’t help but think that in fifty years women will be, like, “Thank God we weren’t alive back in the Dark Ages when women had to pay for egg freezing! Remember when women were having their own babies out of their bodies? Yuck!”
I also had a rude awakening about how little people know about egg freezing, myself included. When I showed up to my rescheduled stand-up performance, the manager of the club ran up to me looking very concerned. He blurted, “Are you okay? I heard you had your ovaries removed!” It was then I decided I’d write about my experience and talk about it publicly to possibly help lessen the stigma and confusion about the procedure. I figure this is the only way we can start the process of making it accessible to more women, covered by insurance, and all that smooth jazz. Hopefully one day freezing your eggs will be as commonplace as getting a teeth cleaning or a bikini wax. Someone call Shark Tank because if there was a service that could wax me while I was under sedation getting my eggs extracted, I would have taken all this way more seriously. Whoever patents that business, you are welcome for the billion dollars you’re about to make.
After the hyperstimulation madness passed and I was back to my old self, and by old I mean former, I truly felt an invisible weight lifted off my shoulders. I hear that cliché a lot but figured I would never have that feeling, given the gigantic size of the purses I carry and the fact that I’ve actually broken my right shoulder, so it always feels like it has weight on it.
Something about having my eggs on ice gave me an enormous sense of relief and filled my lungs with just a little more oxygen. I didn’t feel an incessant hum of anxiety in my stomach. I stopped feeling guilty about taking on jobs that would mean working long hours or being out of town, which would prohibit me from being able to date or nurture a relationship. My inner monologue wasn’t populated with misogynist hecklers yelling, “You’ll never meet a man in time!” or “Motherhood just isn’t in the cards for you, godless weirdo!”
This sense of relief manifested itself in ways I take a lot of pride in. Before I froze my eggs, I’d flirt with literally any guy who had real hair and a car. Post-freezing, I suddenly had these weird things called standards. Today if my gut tells me I’m not into a guy, I don’t go out with him. I realize that concept may be very obvious to most people, but I used to talk myself into going on dates with guys I didn’t like because I was so scared of running out of time or ending up alone. I mean, if I’m going to be very honest, I’m not scared of being alone; I love being alone. I was more scared of people thinking I was alone and that my life wasn’t congruous with the socially acceptable timeline of when we’re “supposed” to be paired up with someone. I rationalized dating guys I wasn’t really into by defending their deficiencies and making excuses for them: “He cheated on his last girlfriend? Well, technically monogamy isn’t natural . . . Monogamy was invented when our life expectancy was thirty! Maybe that just means he’s a great multitasker.” I adopted philosophies I didn’t even believe to justify going out with mediocre guys. “He drinks eight glasses of wine a night? Well, science has found that wine has lots of antioxidants! I gotta meet this health nut!”