1859 Jan | Feb 2018

Until Next Time
Showing Me the Way Home
written by Susannah Bradley | illustrated by Allison Bye
THE PICTURE ON the video screen was dark and grainy,
blurry around the edges with three disks at its center. It
might have been a satellite image of planets in a distant
solar system, remote and mysterious as fate. And in a way,
it was. As I lay on the surgical table at Portland’s Oregon
Reproductive Medicine, staring at my three tiny embryos
on the screen, I willed those planets to become my new
world. Fate, luck and nature had all failed me in my quest
to become a mother, and so it was up to science.
The surgical team finalized its preparations, and I
watched in awe as the doctor drew up each microscopic
fertilized embryo in a pipette for transfer back to my
body. I didn’t feel a thing as the transfer took place, but
psychically, it was huge. If the transfer “took,” I would soon
be the mother of a baby … or three.
The embryo transfer is the last step in the arduous IVF
process. After weeks of injections, ultrasounds and blood
tests, eight eggs were retrieved and cultured in ORM’s
lab. By the fifth day, three embryos had formed, and the
clinic prepared them for transfer. After that, there was
an almost unbearable two-week wait to find out if the
process had worked.
I’ve spent most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, but
I came to Portland for IVF because Oregon Reproductive
Medicine’s success rate for people my age was among the
highest in the country. While my husband was working
in Northern California during a brief career detour, I
spent the two-week wait falling in love with Oregon, my
embryos, and ultimately the idea of a home among the
sheltering trees. I made bargains with the universe (“If this
pregnancy takes, I promise to …”) and saw auspicious signs
everywhere I looked. Red-haired twins shouting “Happy
New Year!” on Hawthorne Boulevard in the middle of July.
Clouds shaped like horses gamboling in the sky over Hood
River. And on a quiet morning in Forest Park, the deer who
stopped and watched me watching her on the trail filled
me with a deep sense that everything was going to be fine.
While my embryos were going about the work of
dividing and implanting, I was discovering neighborhoods,
wandering through parks, and eating a lot of pizza, pastry
and ice cream. I was making myself at home.
“Just wait until the rain starts,” people warned. “Everyone
loves Portland when the sun is shining.” But this was love,
and I knew better.
Two weeks later, the call came on a Tuesday morning.
One of the three embryos had implanted, and we were
going to be parents. I joined my husband in California
and made all of the usual preparations for the birth of
our son, but I missed Oregon the way you miss a person.
I looked out our kitchen window at the arid hills of the
Diablo Range and wished for green mountains and lush
forests instead. If home is where a family’s story begins,
then our family’s home couldn’t be anywhere but Portland.
My husband agreed, updated his resume, and before long
we were hunting for a home for our fledgling family.
Now, we’re raising our son—and his two younger
brothers—in a ramshackle treehouse in Portland’s
Southwest hills. Our boys love rain puddles and slugs,
and falling asleep to the calls of coyotes and owls. They
are Oregonians with a deep appreciation for our state’s
natural treasures and a sense of wonder for the beautiful
place we call home. My oldest boy loves to hear about
the month I spent alone, discovering the places we now
explore together, willing him into existence and making
promises to the universe to be the best mom, if given
the chance. I’ll always be grateful to the team at Oregon
Reproductive Medicine for that chance—and for showing
me the way home.
120 1859 OREGON’S MAGAZINE JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2018