If It's Worth It

Two weeks later July 26th; 2023Taylor Swift's Point of View It started with hormone injections. Almost two weeks of them—every night, same time, stabbing a needle into my stomach to coax my ovaries into producing more eggs than usual. I bruised in the same spots over and over again, my skin a map of desperation.

The mood swings came fast. Headaches. Bloating. I cried because I dropped a spoon and then yelled at Travis for breathing too loud. Every few days, I'd be back in the clinic for blood work and transvaginal ultrasounds. I'd lie there in the stirrups while the tech measured each follicle, nodding and typing like I wasn't even there.

Yesterday was the trigger shot. The last one. It had to be timed perfectly—36 hours before retrieval. I gave it to myself in the bathroom mirror. My hand shook the whole time. And now it's today. Egg retrieval day.

Travis already did his part. Jerked off into a plastic cup in a sterile room with faded posters of tropical beaches taped to the wall. He made some half-hearted joke about it when he came back out, and I didn't even crack a smile. Because this isn't funny. This isn't normal. We're trying to create life to save another.

I'm in a paper gown now, lying on a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, staring at the ceiling and wondering how many eggs they'll get. How many will be mature. How many will fertilize. How many might be a match.

A nurse wheels me into the procedure room. It's cold—colder than it needs to be, I think—and the harsh fluorescent lights make everything feel even more sterile. Clinical. I grip the edge of the bed until my knuckles go white.

The doctor appears beside me, calm and efficient. She checks my chart, confirms my name and date of birth like I haven't already repeated it five times this morning, then gives me a soft smile I can't quite return.

"We're going to start the anesthesia now," the anesthesiologist says gently, attaching a syringe to my IV line. "You'll be asleep in about ten seconds, Taylor."

"Okay," I whisper. My voice trembles.

I turn my head, try to look at something solid—Travis. He's standing just outside the room, watching from behind the glass with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. He gives me the smallest nod. I try to hold onto that.

The ceiling begins to blur. My limbs go heavy. And then everything fades.

When I open my eyes, it feels like only seconds have passed.

I'm in recovery, lying on my side under a thin hospital blanket. There's a dull ache low in my abdomen, like a cramp but deeper. I blink against the brightness and squint until I see Travis sitting beside the bed, scrolling through his phone.

"How many?" I croak.

He looks up immediately, setting the phone down. "Fourteen eggs retrieved," he says softly. "They said they'll let us know tomorrow how many fertilize."

Fourteen. I nod, a lump forming in my throat. That number could mean everything, or it could mean nothing at all. A dozen hurdles still lie ahead.

Travis reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "You did good, Tay."

But I don't feel good. I feel hollow and exhausted and terrified. We're making embryos—life—for a purpose. To save June. Not because we were ready. Not because we wanted another child.

I close my eyes again, trying to steady my breath, trying not to spiral. We're one step closer. That's what I remind myself. Even if the weight of it feels like it might crush me.

~

I'm pacing the condo like a caged animal, still in my pajamas, hair a mess, clutching a cup of cold coffee I've reheated twice and never actually drank. Travis is on the couch pretending to watch something on TV, but I know he's just as tense as I am. Neither of us slept last night.

My phone rings.

I freeze. The number on the screen is from the clinic. My heart flips.

"Hello?" My voice comes out too fast, too high.

"Hi, is this Taylor Swift?" a gentle voice asks.

"Yes. Yes, this is her."

"This is Dana from the embryology team. I'm calling with your fertilization report."

I sit down slowly on the armrest of the couch, and Travis mutes the TV, his eyes locked on me.

"Yesterday, we retrieved fourteen eggs," Dana continues. "Of those, twelve were mature. And as of this morning, nine have successfully fertilized."

Nine.

Nine.

I exhale for what feels like the first time all day. "Okay. That's... that's good, right?"

"That's a very good number. We'll continue monitoring them closely over the next five days to watch their development. Around day five, we'll biopsy any strong blastocysts for preimplantation genetic testing—including the HLA typing for June."

"Right," I whisper. "Okay."

"If we're able to identify a viable embryo that's a genetic match, we'll be in touch immediately to discuss next steps. We'll call again on day three with an update."

"Thank you," I say softly. "Thank you so much."

I hang up and look at Travis.

"Nine," I say. "We got nine."

He pulls me gently onto the couch beside him, wrapping his arm around me. "That's something, Tay. That's a damn good start."

But even as he says it, we both know the truth—we only need one. Just one embryo. One perfect match to save our daughter. And now, all we can do is wait.

~

The call comes just after noon, while Travis is in the kitchen making lunch neither of us are hungry for. I'm sitting at the table, scrolling mindlessly through headlines that still haven't let go of me — not after the post, not after the press caught June's name.

When my phone rings, my breath catches. Same number. The clinic.

I answer immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi, Taylor. It's Dana again, from the embryology lab. I wanted to give you your Day 3 update."

I press the phone tighter to my ear. "Yes. I'm here. Go ahead."

"So, of the nine eggs that fertilized, eight are still developing normally."

Eight. My hand clamps over my mouth. Eight is good. Eight is better than I dared hope for.

"They're showing strong cell division and appropriate growth rates. A few are already at the 8-cell stage, which is ideal. One is lagging behind and may arrest before Day 5, but the others are on track."

I feel Travis's eyes on me from the kitchen. I nod silently, tears burning the back of my throat.

"That's really good news," Dana adds warmly. "If their progress continues, we'll likely have several candidates to biopsy on Day 5."

"For the HLA testing?" I ask.

"Exactly. That'll tell us if any of the zygotes are a potential match for June. Results from that can take about a week after biopsy. But for now—everything looks promising."

I exhale shakily. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, Taylor. We'll call again after Day 5 with the biopsy results. Hang in there."

When I hang up, Travis is already at my side. I can't even say the words. I just nod.

"Eight are still growing," I whisper. "Eight."

He wraps me in his arms. "We might actually get a match."

We both know it's not guaranteed. The genetic odds are slim. But for the first time in weeks, hope feels a little less dangerous to hold.

~

I don't sleep the night before the call.

I try, God knows I try. I close my eyes, I listen to the hum of the air conditioner, I count the ceiling tiles, I cry into a pillow — but nothing helps. My brain won't stop spinning with numbers, with possibilities. How many eggs will make it to blastocyst? Will even one be a match?

By morning, I feel like I've been scraped raw.

The call comes at 9:13 a.m. sharp. I'm already holding the phone when it buzzes in my hand.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Taylor. It's Dana from the clinic again."

I shut my eyes. "I'm here."

"So, we have your Day 5 results. Out of the eight zygotes that were still progressing on Day 3, six developed into quality blastocysts. That's really encouraging."

Six. My knees give out just a little. I sit on the edge of the bed. Travis watches me from the doorway, silent, braced.

"We've biopsied all six for HLA typing," Dana continues. "Those samples have already been sent out for testing to determine if any are a genetic match for June."

"How long?" I ask, voice hoarse.

"About seven to ten days for full results. I know it's hard to wait. But I want you to know — these blastocysts are strong. You did incredibly well."

"Thanks," I whisper. "Thank you."

After I hang up, I sit in the stillness of our rented condo for a long time, the words echoing in my head: six blastocysts. biopsied. waiting.

Travis finally breaks the silence. "It's a shot."

"Yeah," I say. "It's our best one."

And then I start to cry — not because I'm sad or overwhelmed, but because, for once, I feel like I'm doing something right.

~

It's been a week of endless waiting. Every phone ring makes my heart jump. Every time the screen lights up, I brace myself. Then, just after lunch, the call comes.

"Taylor? It's Dana."

I barely manage a breath. "Hi."

"We have your HLA typing results back. Out of the six blastocysts, one is a complete match for June."

A rush of relief floods through me so fierce I nearly gasp out loud.

"One? That's... good?"

Dana's voice is gentle. "It's more than good. It means this blastocyst's cord blood could be used for a transplant. It's your best chance."

Travis squeezes my hand. I can feel his hope, his fear, tangled together.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"Next steps: We'll plan the transfer. It's still early, and there's a lot to prepare. But you're on a hopeful path."

I close my eyes, letting the words settle. Hope feels fragile, but it's the first real thing I've held onto in months. After we hang up, Travis pulls me into a tight hug. For the first time in a long time, I allow myself to believe in a future.

The next morning, Travis and I arrive at the clinic, the sterile scent filling the air. Travis squeezes my hand as we wait, his quiet presence grounding me. My palms are sweaty, my mind racing.

A nurse calls my name and leads me to a small treatment room. The walls are a pale blue, almost calming, but my nerves don't settle.

Dr. Ramirez enters with a warm smile. "Taylor, how are you feeling today?"

I manage a weak smile. "Nervous. Excited. Mostly scared."

She nods knowingly. "That's completely normal. We'll take good care of you."

She gestures to the ultrasound screen. "I'm going to guide the catheter through your cervix to place the embryo into your uterus. You might feel some mild cramping."

I lie back on the table, my legs propped in the stirrups. Travis's voice lingers in my mind: You're strong, we're in this together.

The gel is cold as the technician moves the ultrasound probe, giving us a clear view.

Dr. Ramirez picks up the catheter, delicate and thin. "Okay, here we go."

I watch the screen intently. A tiny cluster of cells glows faintly—my hope, my baby's beginning.

The catheter moves slowly, gently releasing the embryo inside.

"Transfer complete," Dr. Ramirez says softly.

A wave of relief crashes over me, but the fear hasn't gone away.

I whisper, "Please stay. Please grow."

I sit up slowly, eyes searching Travis's. He smiles, tears brimming. "We did it, Taylor. We really did it."

I nod, squeezing his hand back. "Now... we wait."

I sit on examination table, the cool paper rustling beneath me. My hands nervously twist in my lap as I look up at Dr. Ramirez, searching her calm, reassuring face. My voice comes out quieter than I intended.

"How will we know if it worked?" I ask, the weight of hope and fear tangled in the question. My heart pounds in my chest as I brace myself for her answer, already imagining the long wait ahead.

Dr. Ramirez offers a gentle smile, her eyes kind but serious. "We'll start with a blood test about ten to fourteen days after the embryo transfer. That will measure your hCG levels—the hormone your body produces when you're pregnant. If the levels are rising appropriately, that's a good sign."

I nod slowly, absorbing the information but feeling the tension tighten in my chest. "And if they're not?"

"Then we'll know the transfer didn't result in a pregnancy this time. It's not uncommon to need more than one cycle. We'll discuss next steps if that happens."

I exhale shakily. "So... this waiting period, it's the hardest part?"

She nods. "For many patients, yes. It can feel like time stands still, and the uncertainty is overwhelming."

Travis reaches out and gently squeezes my hand. "We'll get through it together."

I squeeze back, grateful for his presence. "I just can't believe I might actually be pregnant. It's just...so weird."

He chuckles softly, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "Weird doesn't even cover it."

I glance down at our joined hands, then to the space where the waistband of my leggings rests flat against my stomach. It still feels impossible that something could already be happening inside me—something microscopic, invisible, yet so unimaginably important.

"I've spent so long trying not to get pregnant," I say quietly. "And now here I am, hoping I am. It's like my brain hasn't caught up yet."

Travis shifts closer on the edge of the couch. "This isn't just any pregnancy, Tay. It's for her. You're trying to save our kid's life. That makes it different."

I look at him, his eyes tired but earnest. "I know. I just—I can't stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. What if I lose it? What if I can't carry it?"

He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "Then we'll try again. However many times it takes."

I blink hard, trying to keep my tears from falling. "You really mean that?"

"Of course I do." He pauses, his voice softening. "But I also think... maybe it's okay to let yourself want this. Not just for June. Maybe part of you wants this baby too."

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Maybe he's right. Maybe part of me does. But I don't say that. Not yet.

"I just want her to live," I whisper instead.

"I know," he says. "Me too."

—————Author's Note:

Tired