How Jennifer gave up her remaining embryo

As an IVF mama and founder of TRB, I know first-hand just how difficult and heartbreaking it can be to decide what to do with remaining embryos. Earlier this summer, we explored the topic with Podcast Host, Natalie Silverman as part of our #fertilityexpertslive series.

The conversation left us keen to learn more about embryo donation, including the realities, considerations and emotions that can come with the decision.

In this article, Nationally Certified Counselor Jennifer Vesbit shares her personal experience of embryo donation, including why she chose to donate her last remaining embryo for adoption and how that decision has shaped her family’s journey.

Jennifer is the co-founder of EM•POWER, an education company dedicated to increasing awareness, empowering choice, and fostering understanding around embryo donation.

This is Jennifer’s personal story, as an embryo donor. Through her own experiences, she reflects on the decision-making process, the emotions involved, and the impact embryo donation has had on both her and her family.

Listen To Your Mother

I’m sitting in the back of a minivan with five of my closest friends. We’re six mums, travelling away from our families on Mother’s Day weekend. Outside the window, the spectacular Columbia River Gorge stretches out before us. Soon, we’ll turn north towards Spokane, Washington.

I’m on my way to take part in Listen To Your Mother, a national storytelling event celebrating motherhood. The show’s mission is to “take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering, through giving voice to motherhood – in all of its complexity, diversity and humor – in the form of original readings performed live on-stage by their authors.”

The year before, I attended Portland’s Listen To Your Mother event. On the day of the show, I received an email from my embryo recipient with the subject line: “Two pink lines this morning.”

She was pregnant.

The emotions that followed were overwhelming. Part of me dreaded attending a show that celebrated motherhood that evening. I worried the content would feel too painful on a day already filled with so much emotion.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

What I witnessed was a beautiful exploration of the many different facets of motherhood. I laughed. I cried. I related. I admired. I grew.

As I sat in the audience, I found myself reflecting on my own story. Could I write something for next year’s show?

I’m not a writer. I’m not a performer. I had never auditioned for a cast before. Yet I challenged myself to do exactly that. I already knew what I would write about. The universe had made that very clear.

I’ve always loved listening to great storytellers. It’s a craft I’ve long admired and aspired to. For nearly a year, I thought about telling my story. All I needed to do was sit down and write, right?

But how would I tell it? And when would I finally feel ready?

It turned out that the morning he was born was the morning I began writing.

At that point, I wasn’t writing in the hope of being cast in a show. I was writing for myself. The process became a form of therapy, helping me navigate the vast range of emotions I was experiencing. Putting my thoughts onto paper gave me a way to process an incredibly vulnerable chapter of my life.

Once it was written, I couldn’t bring myself to revisit it for months. The memories felt too raw. I was afraid of returning to the emotions I had experienced that day.

Eventually, audition season arrived.

I knew it was time to return to the piece. I read it and reread it. I edited and refined it. I practised reading it aloud and timed every version. The story needed to fit into a five-minute slot, so I worked carefully to shape it into something concise while preserving the heart of what I wanted to say.

Since being cast in the show, I’ve found myself repeatedly asking why I felt compelled to do this in the first place.

Why did I challenge myself that day while sitting in the audience? Why did I decide to write my story down? Why did I follow through with the audition? Why does this story feel important to tell?

Was I doing it for myself? As a dedication to my family? As a thank you to the friends who stood beside me throughout this journey? Was it for the strangers in the audience who would hear such a deeply personal story? Or was it for the one person who might connect with it because they had lived through something similar themselves?

The answer is yes – all of the above.

But mostly, I realized this: through the embryo donation process, I learned just how little support exists for women who have donated embryos, or are trying to decide what to do. There is such a need for stories like mine – and for the voices of others willing to speak openly – so that women navigating these decisions feel less alone and more supported.

Just as donating my embryo felt like a way to give purpose to the pain I experienced on my path to motherhood, telling my story now, and supporting others through theirs, feels like a way to give meaning to the pain I carry today.

My Son Shine

(As read on stage)

On January 7th 2017, my genetic son was born to another woman.

She gave birth to him on a cold winter night, in a hospital in New York City, while I laid in my bed in Portland, Oregon.

I’m not sure I’m supposed to call him my son.

She gets to call him that.

She’s his mom.

And she is with him while I am 3,000 miles away.

When my husband and I decided to donate our frozen embryo to a woman in New York, we weren’t even sure it would become a pregnancy, let alone a living baby boy.

It was the toughest decision we’ve ever made.

After seven years of battling infertility when trying to conceive and two rounds of IVF, we were left with one painful miscarriage, the birth of beautiful twins, and one frozen embryo.

The twins were born five years ago, and every day since then has been both a joy and a challenge.

Once a year, amongst all that challenge and joy, we got a notice from the fertility clinic reminding us that we had a frozen embryo and asking us what we wanted to do with it.

We could pay for another year of storage, we could have the embryo disposed of, we could donate it to science or we could donate to another family.

For years I felt too overwhelmed to make the decision, so I kept paying for storage.

In the end, and after much soul searching, I chose to donate to another.

If I wasn’t going to try for this baby on my own (which, believe me, a big part of me wanted to do), I felt a strong need to provide fertility help to someone else who had been through her own pregnancy struggle.

I felt as if all the pain that surrounded my journey trying to conceive to become a mother could be given purpose, if only I could try to help relieve someone else’s pain.

This brings me back to the middle of the snowy night in NYC.

I was about to go to sleep when I got a text from her saying he’d likely be born soon.

I wrote back to her and let her know that I was still awake.

After a few exchanges, it occurred to me that I was her person that night.

I lay in bed and texted her words of strength through my tears;

“Once you see him, the rest won’t matter. I promise,” I told her.

“Please don’t feel alone, I am with you in spirit.”

The news of his birth came early the next morning, and a range of emotions overwhelmed me.

I imagined how perfect he must be.

I just knew he was perfect.

And then it happened.

A photo of him came via text.

As it flashed on my screen my heart shot down into my stomach and I threw my phone across the room.

I only saw him for a second, but I knew exactly what he looked like.

He looked like my other son, with a touch of my daughter.

He had my husband’s nose and mouth and my forehead.

His eyes were closed so I wasn’t sure whose those were yet.

When I picked up my phone to look at the photo again, I could not stop staring.

I had been right.

He was perfect.

And you know what?

I wanted him.

I admit it.

I wanted to fly to New York and take him.

Forget generosity.

Forget kindness.

Forget doing the right thing.

I wanted him back.

The sounds of new texts on my phone brought me to reality.

Her loved ones’ responses began rolling in.

“Congratulations!”

“He’s perfect!”

“I’m crying with joy!’

“He is wonderful and so handsome!”

“You both look so beautiful cuddling!”

The final text simply said, “God is good.”

As I sat there, alone, in my bedroom I thought.

What?

God is good?

No.

I AM GOOD.

I wanted someone to acknowledge me.

I wanted someone to thank me.

I wanted someone to tell me what I had done was beautiful.

I wanted to be held on the shoulders of a parade of women and have my own version of For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow.

Perhaps my song would go, “For She’s a Heartbroken Mother. Please tell her she did the right thing.”

A journey like this teaches you about strong relationships, about the strength of your character and the limits to that strength.

I had my inner circle of fellow mothers that I chose to share with.

From the moment I decided to donate, to the moment I found out she was pregnant, to the moment I found out he was a boy, to the moment he was born, the women in my life listened.

Although none of them could’ve known exactly how I felt, I could see the reflection of my emotions in their eyes and hear the reassuring tone in their voices that said, “I understand.”

To those women I say, “thank you.”

On the day I found out she was pregnant, I went for a drive.

I find that sitting behind the wheel of my car on a country road is one of the best places to cry.

I’ll never forget the moment that day when my car slowed to stop at a stop sign.

I looked out the passenger side window at the sun shining on a field of grass.

In that moment, I had an epiphany.

In that moment, my heartache cleared.

My fear vanished.

My sense of loss was no longer.

In that moment, I was sure that I had made the right decision.

I knew that I had given someone the ultimate gift: the opportunity to love unconditionally.

And in that moment, I was sure that that is what life is all about.

The most difficult letter I’ve ever written

Our embryo recipient asked me to write a letter to her soon-to-be born son. She asked for it to be handwritten, and planned to have it printed in a book she was creating for him about his origins. It was the most difficult letter I have ever written.

Some of the challenges I faced:

• This letter would be in print – forever, for him to read and reread as many times as he wanted to. That was intimidating.

• He would be exposed to the letter at a young age, so it needed to be simple and I needed to use plain language that a child could understand.

• How could I possibly say everything I wanted to say to him in one letter?

• How could I convey the difficulty of the decision I made (ensuring he knew that he wasn’t ‘unwanted’), while also getting across the confidence I had in his chosen mother?

I sat alone in a park and wrote my first draft. I let the words flow freely. I left nothing out. I wrote and I wrote (and I cried and cried). I knew that no one else would ever read that letter. I included everything: my fears, my wishes, my sadness, my joy. All that I hoped he would one day know.

It was exhausting, and therapeutic. On the second draft, I wrote something I might actually send. After reading it, however, I realized it was too clinical and cerebral for a child to understand. My husband and I were originally going to write separate letters but once we collaborated, everything came together. We sat down and made a list of what we wanted to convey:

• We wanted him to know a little bit about us.

• We wanted him to know that we wanted to give him the gift of life.

• We wanted him to know that we wanted to give his mom the gift of parenthood.

• We wanted him to know that we loved him, and that we hoped to watch him grow and become a part of his life.

Once we had that foundation set, the words came quickly. Here is the final draft:

“Dear ____,

Our names are Jennifer and Tom. We wanted to write you this letter to tell you a little bit about where you come from. We donated an embryo to your mom. From that embryo, your mom gave birth to you.

First, a little bit about us. Tom sings and plays guitar. He loves science and music. He is an engineer and a lawyer. He’s also really tall – six feet five inches tall! Jennifer is a counselor and enjoys helping people. She loves to dance and laugh and spend time in nature. We live in Portland, Oregon. We have twins: a girl named _____ and a boy named ____.

We donated the embryo that you came from to your mom because we wanted to give you the gift of life. We also wanted to give your mom the gift of parenthood because we know how special that is. Before we donated, we searched and searched for the right parent and the right home for you. It was a hard decision that we took very seriously. When we talked to your mom, we could tell how much she wanted to have a child. We knew that she, her friends, and her family could give you care and support to help you grow and thrive. We are confident that you will be part of a loving family.

We look forward to the opportunity to get to know you and seeing you grow and develop.

Love, Jennifer & Tom”

I was to meet his mother for the first time in person, too, which brought another set of questions. Would I see a bond between the two of them? Would I like her parenting style? Would I like her? I had imagined the moment and what it would be like to meet both of them hundreds of times. Today all of my visions would be brought to life. My eyes would witness their world, their interactions, and their love. It was safer to have them in my imagination, but I was ready for 3D and Technicolor. I spent the hours leading up to the meeting searching for signs, as I often do when I’m feeling uneasy. As I ran through my neighborhood in Southeast Portland, I looked to the sky. It’d been a consistently sunny, hot summer, but this particular day was a mix of sun, clouds, and rain. I couldn’t help but wonder if the weather was symbolic of my complicated feelings.

How fitting that it wasn’t all sunshine. How fitting that it wasn’t all rain.

As I ran, it felt like my body was moving through mud. I wondered if the emotional heaviness of the day could really take a toll in that form. I had never experienced anything like that before. I turned up the hip-hop playlist that I’d selected. I’d wanted something hard-hitting and real. Give me Kanye, Drake, Kendrick Lamar. Give me angry, gritty, poetic angst. Give me police brutality and race relations. Give me problems bigger than mine. When I returned home, I logged on to an embryo donation support group on Facebook that I’d recently joined. I posted a note to the group letting them know that I was going to meet my ‘biological son’ that day, and that I was seeking words of advice and sources of strength. One of the comments was unsettling. A woman suggested that if I simply changed my terminology, and called him my recipient’s son instead of my biological son, I’d have an easier time. I’m certain she meant well, but her response made me feel worse.

I do call him and think of him as her son. In this particular case, I simply, momentarily, did not. I thought that of all places, an embryo donation support group would be a safe space where I could call him that. I did not want to be corrected. I did not want to be made to feel bad for occasionally slipping into thinking of him in that way. I took this feeling into the therapy session I’d scheduled for my husband and me right before we were to meet our “son”. I wanted to spend the hour just crying, to deplete my mind and body of all emotion and apprehension. Unexpectedly, however, it was my husband who took on that role. And as I watched him cry, my own need to cry subsided. I reassured him and I called on my counseling skills to actively listen and reflect back to him what he was sharing.

Directly after the therapy session, we drove to the park where we were to meet them. I chose a park over a cafe as our meeting place because the expansiveness of the grounds felt more akin to the vast emotions I would likely experience. As I scanned the park, I immediately saw them. I felt a sense of peace wash over my body as we took the path to our meeting place. I made a mental note of the fact that people sitting near them had no idea of their proximity to the profound moment that was about to take place. I walked toward them with my heart open and my head held high.

I was no longer nervous. I was confident. I was ready.

We walked closer. There HE was. Although I was focused on greeting his mom, he mesmerized me. He is one of the most beautiful babies I have ever been in the presence of. I had seen pictures, so I knew that he was a happy boy, but I had no idea how full of joy he was. I had no idea that his smile could light up an entire park on a now sunny day. His mom immediately asked me if I wanted to hold him. I gratefully said yes and took him into my arms. As I looked into his eyes, I realized that this was the exact moment I had imagined hundreds of times. This was the moment when I was supposed to cry. But I didn’t. I just sat there with an overwhelming feeling, that I don’t know exactly how to describe, other than to say I’d never felt so many different emotions at once before. I passed the baby to my husband and watched them beautifully interact. He passed the baby back to his mom. The adults talked. The baby breastfed and slept, then cooed on a picnic blanket. We all marvelled at the surreal situation in which we found ourselves, and at how simultaneously beautiful and difficult the world can be at times.

In perhaps the most profound moment of my life, I looked over at him lying on the blanket. He had been looking at me and smiling, waiting to catch my eye. As I made eye contact with him, I had a strong sense that he had a message for me. He looked me in the eyes and told me, simply, “Thank you.” I looked back at him and silently nodded my head and said, “You’re welcome. I’ve got you.”

I’m not sure what he was thanking me for. Maybe it was for giving him the gift of life. Maybe it was for choosing such an awesome mom for him. Maybe I seemed familiar to him. Maybe he could sense how much I truly, deeply care. Maybe he knows how much I love him. I left the park thinking, I hope he knows. And the tears finally came.

Hopefully this embryo donation blog has given you a deeper understanding of the positives and negatives that come with donating an embryo. If this is something that you have been considering, and you want to find out more about what it involves, then visit Jennifer’s website. You will find all sorts of fertility help and advice, and hopefully feel confident enough to take that next step.