My frozen embryo is stuck in a Russian clinic – now I’m haunted by images of the daughter I may never have

The wealthy are testing their embryos before implantation, sparking concern about social engineering. It’s a valid worry, writes Charlotte Cripps, but we ought to be talking about the psychological cost of leaving one or more embryos behind, too

‘Sometimes I wonder where my embryo is, and what – if anything – has happened to her. Is she OK? Has she been drafted?’ (iStock)

I have a frozen embryo stored on ice in a fertility clinic in St Petersburg, Russia. She – and, yes, I know her gender – has been in the freezer for six years. I’ve even given her a name: Talulah. She’s the unborn child I will probably never have; a potential sibling for my daughters Lola, eight, and Liberty, six. I have absolutely no idea what to do with her.

I could just bury my head in the sand – the clinic in Russia hasn’t emailed me storage charges in years, so that’d be easy to do. I could send a courier to collect her, but that’s a bit fraught due to the war. Sometimes I wonder where she is, and what – if anything – has happened to her. Is she OK? Has she been drafted? Talulah, the fantasy third child I can’t afford, and who I might not implant even if I won the lottery tomorrow.

My two daughters know all about Talulah – she’s part of our family history. Liberty wants a baby sister, while Lola is far more sensible. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she says, knowing it would all be too much for us if Talulah made it into this world – which would be highly likely if I did implant her. I know she is a chromosomally strong embryo with a high grade, because I did basic preimplantation genetic screening (PGS) in 2016. It checks for chromosome abnormalities, can pick up on Down syndrome, and is a strong indicator of the risk of miscarriage.

I know there are concerns around this. Today’s advanced screening of embryos has led to worry that the wealthy will end up breeding “superbabies”. The US-based reproductive technology startup Orchid is now offering full-scale analysis of embryos. It claims to spot predisposition towards over 1,200 diseases, along with Alzheimer’s, diabetes, coronary artery disease and cancers, and costs around £2,000 per embryo, on top of IVF costs. Critics, though, have dubbed it “social engineering”.

In my case, I was suffering from a low ovarian reserve when I was advised by doctors to resort to gruelling rounds of IVF as a matter of urgency. But for others with no fertility problems at all, choosing to freeze embryos and pre-screen them for a multitude of potential health problems is becoming the norm.

The argument for this is that many women go through far worse when it comes to cosmetic procedures – so why not put up with IVF to have a superbaby? But what isn’t much spoken about is the emotional toll of making these decisions. That’s why my advice to wealthy people who might have to discard a lot more than one viable embryo – especially if you’re young and harvest tons of eggs – is to remember it’s hard to leave a healthy embryo behind. Or even throw it away. When I was first faced with that piece of paper covered in data, it hadn’t crossed my mind that one day I’d be haunted by the image of Talulah in a freezer, as if she’s nothing more than a frozen apple pie.

When it comes to my non-frozen family, Lola was born first – she was the best embryo I had. She was conceived in a fertility clinic in Spain, as it was cheaper back then to undergo IVF in Europe than in the UK. Spanish law dictates that embryos can only be kept frozen for a year, so I had to embark on a mad rush to find any clinic in Europe that would keep the rest of them on ice for me. That’s why they ended up in Russia. There, about two years after Lola’s birth, it was a toss-up between implanting Liberty or Talulah, if I remember correctly. But I can’t imagine life without Liberty now. It would break my heart to not know her as I do, or not to have her at all. How different would it be if I’d chosen Talulah? Might Talulah have been the problem child? Did I have a lucky escape?

‘I know rationally Talulah doesn’t have feelings yet – she’s at the beginning stages of a newly developing human – but she is real to us’ (iStock)

Now I’m faced with big decisions. I could put Talulah up for adoption, or even give her as a gift to an infertile couple. Or I could try to forget about her. Look, I know rationally Talulah doesn’t have feelings yet – she’s at the beginning stages of a newly developing human – but she is real to us.

If I were to get pregnant with her, I’d have to take hormones and force a period to prepare my body for impregnation – but it doesn’t even matter about my age at this point because I’ve already got the high-quality goods. I could equally use a surrogate to give birth to her, to save my body from going through another pregnancy.

These are the thoughts they don’t tell you about when they test your embryos. I had mine tested because it made a lot of sense: I had hit my forties and was deemed a huge risk, with the rate of embryonic abnormalities affected greatly by female age.

It wasn’t like I cared about gender, either: finding out Liberty and Talulah were both female embryos was a happy accident. When I shipped the rest of my embryos, eggs and sperm to Russia, I caught sight of the paperwork. Embryo No 1 (Liberty) was a girl, as was Embryo No 2 (Talulah). I figured I’d take advantage. I went ahead and had Liberty because I knew she could easily share a bunk bed with Lola in my two-bedroom flat. The trouble with Orchid testing, though, is that it takes the whole selection process to an extreme. No longer are women too posh to push, they’re too wealthy to whack out anything except perfection.

Every parent, of course, wants a healthy child, but don’t underestimate the emotional pull of knowing that waiting in the wings is a life or two. Or in some cases, 17.