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Until recently, when the price of eggs became an economic hot button, the humble egg was an affordable and commonplace staple in the American diet.

Every Easter, the egg's status gets elevated. Eggs — colored, decorated and adorned — become gifts.

There's evidence that eggs were given as gifts long before Easter. Archaeologists found etched ostrich eggs in South Africa that are 60,000 years old. The Chinese exchanged embellished eggs to commemorate spring equinoxes 5,000 years ago. Around the same time, ancient Persians swapped decorated eggs to celebrate each new year.

Twenty-four years ago, I received a special gift of eggs. Not Easter eggs. Eggs that would help me become a mother.

Before that story, a brief biology lesson:

When a baby girl is born, her two, tiny ovaries contain a lifetime supply of oocytes — human eggs. About a million of them. The majority will be lost during normal cellular decay; the rest will supply her reproductive cycles for years. Eventually, one may end up merging with a sperm cell and spark a pregnancy.

My youngest sister came into this world when I was 12. My parents let me name her. When Mom phoned me from the hospital with the proposed new name — Christine — I complained that it was too ordinary. "How about 'Christa,' instead?"

Mom acquiesced.

Most of the time I spent with Christa was babysitting her. I learned how to give her a bottle, change her diaper, hold and console her, take her for walks. I was fascinated with her features, especially how much we looked alike. We shared our father's dark brown eyes. And the shape of his face. She was a more beautiful version of me: I was the rough draft; she was the final cut.

When she was 6 and I was 18, I left home for good — college, job, marriage. Still, Christa and I remained close. She was 20 and single when she got pregnant, and asked for my advice. I was 32, and 11 years into a marriage that was falling apart. I told her she was too young to become a mother. There was no sign she disagreed with me until a few months later, when she gave birth to a baby girl. She called to share the news, and that the name of my first niece was Tori.

I wholeheartedly approved.

Five years later, I became pregnant for the first time while engaged to my soon-to-be second husband. I was 22 weeks along when we traveled to Maui for our destination wedding and honeymoon. As we were packing for our return flight, I felt a warm gush between my legs. Blood, dripping ominously large drops onto the floor. The emergency room doctor declared I was in danger of losing our baby — a boy, who we had already named August — and dramatically exclaimed, "We're in a heap of trouble!" That's when my legs began to shake. And shake some more. They wouldn't stop. As I was transferred to a stretcher, rolled into a small airplane, flown to a specialty women's hospital in Honolulu and admitted to the labor-and-delivery floor, at least the shaking gave me something tangible to focus on.

I now know I was in shock.

The team of doctors and nurses who were assigned to my care were the most attentive and compassionate medical professionals I've ever met. They took their time explaining all the variables, all the options, all the possible outcomes. They then explained everything again. Sadly, in the end, they were not able to save Auggie. He weighed less than a pound, but the grief that took his place crushed me under its weight. I'll never forget the sound of my wails when we left the hospital and drove to the airport.

For the next four years, every attempt to get pregnant again was unsuccessful. We tried IUI (intrauterine insemination) — in which a sample of sperm was collected, then inserted into the uterus when I was hyperfertile, due to a regimen of hormone injections. We tried IVF (in vitro fertilization) — in which eggs are removed from the ovaries and mixed with sperm in a petri dish. Any eggs that become fertilized get transferred to the uterus.

The desired outcome for both procedures is a fertilized egg attaching itself to the wall of the uterus, where it will grow. It didn't happen for us. Each failed attempt was followed by another cycle of heartbreaking, gut-wrenching grief.

At our last post-mortem with the fertility doctor, I asked about something I'd been wondering: Can PTSD over a pregnancy loss render a body unable — or unwilling — to get pregnant again? Is there some psychosomatic defense system to avoid suffering another "heap of trouble?"

"I doubt it," the doctor answered. "It's probably, simply, because your eggs are too old."

By now, I was 41.

He continued. "Can you think of anyone younger who could donate eggs for you? A cousin, a sister?"

"I have a sister 12 years younger than me," I replied.

He looked stunned. "I don't recall you ever mentioning that. Is she healthy? Drug-free? Available? Willing?"

It turns out, the answer to all was yes. So Christa generously endured the required battery of psychological tests, weeks of painful injections and, finally, egg-retrieval surgery under general anesthesia. Then came the final IVF procedure, when five young, fertilized eggs were transferred to my uterus.

A few days later, the highly anticipated phone call came: "Congratulations! Two of the eggs survived the transfer! If all goes well, you're going to have twins!"

My daughters were born nearly nine months later. Both on the small side, but strong and healthy enough to avoid spending time in the NICU. Two more pairs of the same brown eyes. And their own lifetime supply of eggs, some of which could, some day, become my grandchildren.

They're now young adults, who know their existence is due to the incredible gift freely given by their Aunt Christa. My absolutely awesome baby sister. Long before I could ever imagine that the day she was born, a part of my daughters was born, too.

Shari M. Danielson is a writer in Long Lake.