Going through in vitro fertilization (IVF) is like donating your body to science without being dead, but you have to be awake for the results. The results of something that you’ve desired for since as long as you can remember. And there is absolutely nothing you can do to control the outcome. You are literally a walking science experiment.
Our IVF Transfers
Our first transfer, on Wednesday, October 9, went perfectly. Except for the fact that our nurse didn’t tell us that our doctor wouldn’t be performing the transfer, and that the other doctor of the practice would be. My blood pressure went up slightly, but they were able to bring it down with valium. We took a selfie beforehand, feeling confident and sure that within the hour, we’d be parents. While I was on bedrest, I wrote a letter to our baby to tell her how surprisingly beautiful it was to watch on the ultrasound screen as the doctor placed the embryo into my uterus via a catheter. I did all the right things, ate clean, meditated, practiced yoga, didn’t take a hot shower or move too much, it had to be it!
And, it did work. When I got the call, my nurse (who we fired shortly after because she gave me extreme anxiety) said, “You are pregnant! BUT, your hCG is only at 19 and we want it to be above 50. So, be cautiously optimistic, but the good news is you’re pregnant!” WHAT? I didn’t know THIS was a possible outcome.
I went in two days later to test my hcG levels to see if they doubled. After waiting hours in purgatory, I got the call. My numbers dropped to 5. I’d lose the embryo. Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than putting your body through absolute hell, doing everything right, and then learning that it failed you. That’s the moment that we really realized that we have no control over what happens. NONE.
The days that followed were filled with complete and utter despair. Everything was dark, I didn’t see anything in color. I saw no point in smiling, no point in looking forward to being alive. I took walks with our dog and sobbed, unable to catch my breath or see down the street through my blurred vision. Nothing mattered. I lost so much hope with that failed transfer. And you know what? I was okay with being there, alone in the dark. I wanted to feel that way, because that’s how I processed our grave loss. It was a little girl, a perfect little girl.
One of the biggest realizations I’ve come to during my on and off grieving process over the past five and a half years is that as a whole, we don’t know how to help people grieve. We want to fix their pain, we don’t know what to say and it’s uncomfortable. The worst reaction I got from people was “Do not give up hope!” and “You will be parents!” To me, that felt like my feelings weren’t valid and that it was wrong of me to feel such despair. Everything in me said it was right to feel that way, and I was content with sitting in the darkness. In fact, I think that’s when you’re closest to the source of life.
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
- The Uses of Sorrow by Mary Oliver
In the mornings that followed, I asked myself, “How can I move forward and function in a world where most everyone has children? What will that look like? How can I fit in with my friends, co-workers, family that all have children? Will we ever not feel this sadness in our hearts?” It takes courage to move through fertility treatments, and it takes even greater courage to decide when to stop and live a childfree life for the sake of your health.
When you don’t have children, you don’t just “not have any kids” – you literally have to change your whole life so that you can have experiences that enrich your existence. Find other people to spend time with that don’t have children. Plan vacations over holidays so you don’t have to sit and smile through your pain. I felt that. And for my friends who are out there living with this reality, I see you. I won’t forget you. And, you belong. You belong here to show us what strength is. To show us how to show up every day in the face of adversity. To show us how to be vulnerable, survive and thrive.
Our doctor met with us shortly after the failure and although I didn’t believe it, she told me that it wasn’t my fault. Our embryo implanted, but then “fizzled out”. We decided to proceed immediately into the next transfer, which would be about 8 weeks later. It’d be painful no matter what, so we decided to forge ahead. This time, we’d transfer both of our remaining embryos, so it was our last shot at pregnancy. The reason for this was that our remaining two were a day 6 embryo and a day 7. Day 7 embryos don’t have as high of a likelihood of implanting, about 30% compared to the day 6’s 70%. Our doctor didn’t want us to go through all of the hard work of transferring to have it fail and then not have a good shot at it working with the day 7.
For the first transfer, I chose to go through a natural cycle so I was on fewer drugs, but that also meant that I was getting daily blood draws for about 2 weeks. The phlebotomists told me that my “veins were mushy” after about 6 days. Gag. For our final transfer, I did it the traditional way and took all the drugs and injections, but I didn’t have to get as much bloodwork. It was worth the trade-off. We also changed our plan and moved forward with the Antihistamine Protocol, just in case my body was treating the embryo as an invader and killing it.
For those of you that are curious, this is the general outline of the plan:
Took birth control for 2 weeks until Cycle Day 1 (CD1)
Then, started daily Lupron injections for 4 weeks to control my ovaries
Called the clinic on my next CD1
Continue Lupron and visited Wanda (vaginal ultrasound wand) to check my lining. After the third check, mine was at 13! I felt good about that, the first transfer it was at a 9 by this point. (They want it to be above 8)
Lock in the lining with estrogen and progesterone. The estrogen was easy - 3/day orally, and 1/day vaginally. Progesterone was 3/day vaginally and 1 shot in the ass/day. The shots hurt and caused scar tissue. In the words of my friend Rachel, “That’s one way to get a hard ass.” I was lucky to have a partner who never complained about giving them to me. There’s nothing sexier than waiting in bed without your pants on, accepting shots in the ass by your lover!
Started the Antihistimine Protocol which was a cocktail mix of Claritin, Pepcid, and a low dose of Prednisone (steroid) for the next 10 weeks.
Finally, we transferred the last two embryos on Wednesday, November 26th.
It’s truly amazing to watch the embryos being transferred into your uterus on the ultrasound screen. Tiny little flashes of light making their way back into their home. After they’re in there, I remained lying down for 30 minutes before going home on bedrest. I made a pit stop to see my acupuncturist, though. This can increase your chances of implantation.
The two week wait is hell! I worked on puzzles, ate healthy meals and enjoyed being spoiled by my husband. During that time, I felt a lot of the same sensations in my uterus that I felt the first time, so I had a good feeling about it working.
We got the call on December 5 from our new nurse. “You are pregnant! Your hCG is at 112, and we love seeing it above 100. We’ll see you in two days to make sure it doubles.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. It worked.
Two days later after my blood work appointment, I got the call, “It went up, but not as much as we’d like to see. It went up to 170. It might not be anything to worry about, but we want to see you again in 2 days to see what these numbers do.” I was standing in the co-op getting groceries and had to lean against my cart to stop myself from crumbling to my knees. Not again. I can’t do this again. I pulled myself together, gathered the rest of my groceries and went home to talk to Graeme and cry.
That Monday, December 9th at 8:45am, I went in for the blood test to check my numbers again. We didn’t get a call until 3:30pm that afternoon, telling me that my hCG is at 363! Praise everything!!! It was pure torture until we got that phone call. We wouldn’t find out for a few weeks if both of the embryos stuck or if one did. I was convinced we were having twins, but during our first ultrasound, we learned that there was one healthy, thriving embryo.
We went from three embryos to none, but we have one fetus. She (yes, SHE!) has taken up residence in my womb and I am a little over 20 weeks pregnant. I talk to her every day. We love her so much, and everything feels like divine timing. She is due on August 13th, a fierce little Leo.
I am sad that we don’t have any embryos left in the bank because I’m not sure I can go through the whole process again. I’m also still grieving the loss of our first embryo, I think I’ll always wonder who she would’ve been. This might be our only baby and the only time I am pregnant, and you better believe I’m enjoying every day with this little life inside of me. I will never take it or her for granted.
Reflection and Growth
I’ve never felt as grounded and connected as I do right now, and I realize how privileged I am to be having this experience. So many people endure infertility year after year, failed treatment after failed treatment. Some stop treatments and move to the next phase of being childless not by choice.
As I reflect on my time living with infertility, I realize how angry I was. I was angry, sad, alone, and paralyzed with fear, terror and anxiety. Over the past couple of years, I got to the point where socializing was painful for me, even with close friends and their children. I’d put on my brave face and then spend weeks crying to myself in the shower. I couldn’t function in a world where everyone I knew and loved had children. I grew distant in group settings, trying to participate but completely lost in my thoughts. I realize now that I was harboring anger. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. It was painful and incredibly unfair.
I read this quote somewhere and wrote it down, and for the life of me cannot recall who said it, but it’s spot on.
“Infertility is a slow burn of grief, each month harder than the last, with no bodies to bury, no ceremonies for healing, and no closure with time. It is an open wound.”
This is my story, and I’m proud of it. It has shaped me and transformed me into a person with more empathy and gratitude, and it has opened my heart to a world of feeling things more deeply. This is what growth feels like.
The pain hasn’t left and I sometimes find myself falling back into my old patterns of fear. I still grieve the loss of our first embryo, the one that filled me with so much hope and courage. But now, when I feel fear creeping in, I can touch my belly and say, “I choose you, I do not choose fear.” I choose this life inside of me. It’s so perfect and divinely timed. We can’t wait to meet this little person who has already taught us so much. We promise to teach you, too, little Earthling, and to share your story with you of how you got here and how the biggest pandemic swept the world while you were in utero. I have a feeling our life together will be full of interesting adventures. You are so loved.
Thank you to everyone who has supported us and loved us throughout this process.