“You’ve got ovaries," said my Airbnb neighbor in Valencia. She meant it metaphorically, as in “You've got balls."­

My ovaries were praised a lot during those days in 2016. I had come from Germany to Valencia on my own, to attempt in-vitro fertilization. The gynecologist at the clinic who saw my ovaries under the ultrasound was enthusiastic. He believed he would be able to retrieve quite a few healthy eggs, and there would be several pre-embryos in the freezer of the clinic waiting for me next time I came back.

In spite of people praising my ovaries, I felt everything but brave during those summer days in Valencia. I was afraid the treatment might fail, but sometimes my heart beat equally fast when I thought about everything I needed to do, if it succeeded – like finding daycare and better housing with a private bathroom in Germany.

I would have preferred to have children with my partner. But he had slunk out of my life several years ago, probably for the very reason that I had wanted to have children with him. Now, at 42, I didn't have time to wait for another someone to come along. So, with the courage of despair, I had chosen to go to Valencia for IVF.

Why Valencia? In my home country of Germany, conservative laws forbade this kind of treatment for single women. Some of my German gynecologists were afraid to even talk about any kind of fertility treatment, for fear of losing their licenses. Spain was one of the few countries in Europe that allowed singles to have IVF. The clinic in Valencia had a good reputation. Plus, I had spent six months in the city as a university student. I was familiar with the place and the language.

During the phase of the IVF treatment, though, I felt lonely there. My friends from student days had moved away.And I hadn’t brought anyone with me from Germany; in fact, only three people there knew that I was not just enjoying a beach holiday in Valencia.

I had planned to spend the days before the egg retrieval swimming and walking under the big-bellied trees in the riverbed of the Turia. But I was soon told I shouldn’t move that much, because I would risk an ovulation, which would end the treatment prematurely.

When the day of the surgery arrived, nine eggs could be retrieved from my ovaries. Five of them were fertilized, but none of them developed much further. I flew home from Valencia knowing I had waited too long to have a genetic child of my own.

Back in Germany, on still shaky legs, I taught a class of 80 students. I didn’t dare to tell my colleagues how I felt and why. My contract was due to end soon, and I didn’t want to risk the next one by letting them know I was trying for a baby.

After the failed IVF, my gynecologist in Valencia advised me to try again with a donor egg, meaning the transfer of a pre-embryo. Initially, I was not ready to carry the child of another woman.But then, I thought of all those free-floating little pre-embryos who were left over after their mothers had had the one, two or three children they had come to the clinic for and finally decided to ‘adopt’ one of them.

As previously with my IVF, life beyond my job revolved once again around taking the necessary tests, contacting clinics, organizing medication, and trying to keep a few consecutive weeks free from work. I could never know if one of my periods would shift, thereby shifting the possible date for a transfer. Finally, the clinic in Valencia confirmed they had a pre-embryo for me, and I booked my flight.

I knew that my statistical chances of having a baby after the transfer were less than 50%. My failed IVF attempt had made me realize I would need more support during the treatment. And I also knew I would need people in Germany to talk to, if things didn’t turn out well. So, this time I told quite a few people about my plans. When I left for the transfer in the spring of 2019, my sister Christina came along to spend a week with me in Valencia. When she had to leave, my Spanish friend Graci was there. She sat beside me chatting with the hospital personnel, while a female doctor positioned the pre-embryo in my uterus.

This time everything seemed to go well. The pre-embryo developed into an actual embryo, the little heart was beating, and I started thinking about a sidebed that would allow me to roll over and grab the baby when he or she woke up crying. I fantasized about me and the child running along the beach in Valencia.

And then there was bleeding, and it was over.

I had told myself I would try for a baby three times. But I hadn’t known how hard the first two failures, especially the loss of the little free-floating embryo, would hit me. I knew if I tried again, I had to be strong enough to cope with another potential loss.

When I finally felt ready, COVID-19 hit Europe. My flight to Valencia was cancelled two days before departure. The virus didn’t only change my immediate plans, but also my broader perspective. Before, I had assumed I would stay fit and healthy at least until age 89. Now, I’m not sure how many years I could still be around for a child. So, I won’t try again.

I need to figure out, though, what I’ll use my outstanding ovaries for now.

Annette Arend