I can't even begin to tell you how many blog posts I have written in my head the past 6 weeks but never gotten around to actually writing. The biggest reason of which is that I have been too afraid. We have been so secretive about our FETs this past year, and I have opened this blog up to so many people in my life- I guess I just wasn't ready to share yet. But now it's becoming too much and I am finding myself feeling more lost than I did the first time around, and I realize how desperately I need to stop trying to keep it all in.
Infertility 2.0 was supposed to be easier, less painful and traumatic somehow. We have already endured the years of trying on our own, the tedium of temping, the anxiety of testing & diagnosis, the marathon of IVF, the hell of miscarriage and finally the joy of successful FET. We knew what to expect. We knew the problems and how to treat them. There was no reason this shouldn't work. No reason this time shouldn't have been smoother, simpler than than the first. Oh how very wrong we were.
In 2013, we had 3 failed FET cycles. With the 5 embryos lost to these failures added to the 3 that didn't make it the first time around, that puts the viability of my embryos so far at 1 in 9- far below the 1 in 3 my RE predicted based on my age, hormone levels and our combined egg/sperm quality. 5 transfers, 9 embryos, one child- I am beating the odds in a terrible way. And I was not at all prepared for this or for how it would affect me.
When we started infertility treatment 2.0 this past summer, I not only felt fairly confident we would have an easier time achieving success, but that if for some reason we didn't I would be more ok with everything than I was the first time. I think I even said so on my blog. After all, I wasn't a mom last time and now I am. Who cares if I have one baby or two? I'm a mom when I wasn't before and the headcount of my household doesn't change that fact. Which is still true, of course. In so many ways it is not as painful, it doesn't cut the same way the fight for motherhood did. But it still hurts and cuts in new ways I never saw coming.
My body has now failed me more than it had in 2010 when we were going through IVF/FET. Then, I just couldn't get pregnant without help but after the hormones and the procedures, my body did a pretty good job of behaving as it should. I felt damaged for sure, but I didn't feel quite as broken as I do now. Today, I met with my RE and discussed the possibility that fluid in my fallopian tubes may be creating a toxic womb environment and destroying what would otherwise be healthy, viable embryos. The thought that my own body is responsible for literally killing my embryos is soul crushing.
How do I maintain a healthy self-esteem when my own body is so broken and dysfunctional? How do I stave off the despair, self-blame and depression that comes from infertility when I think about my own body actually poisoning my attempts to further build my family? How do I control my anger when I realize that we have spent thousands of dollars, I have forced myself through hundreds of injections, and we have tolerated months of anxiety, false hopes and heartbreak all with absolutely nothing to show for it? How do I hold back the flood of tears when my daughter comes running into the room to show me that she has been practicing her sign language so she can teach it to the baby brother or sister she keeps begging me for? How do I manage the guilt and shame at letting all of this hurt so much when I know I am lucky to have such an amazing child, even if she is my only one? Infertility as once again made me feel like a failure, this time as a woman, a wife, an advocate and a mother. I just wasn't prepared for all the new ways my heart would break when we set back out on this road.
Writing and blogging really is such a cathartic way to deal with everything that happens in life, and I don't know why I don't make more time to do it. Mostly, just the regular excuses about being busy and distracted I guess. I mean, yeah I actually am busy and I do get distracted but I should make more quality time for myself. Especially now.
After September's chemical pregnancy, I realized how very much I want to have another child so Chad and I plunged straight into another cycle. I was already in the habit of nightly injections, so might as well keep them going. And yeah that cycle ended badly, but this next one was sure to work, right? I won't keep you in suspense, the answer is no. Today was beta and my official BFN.
Not that it was a shock. I poas'd earlier this weekend knowing Chad was leaving town for work today, and neither of us wanted to be apart immediately after getting the results, so we decided it was better to find out sooner rather than later. Both our hopes were much higher than either us had confessed though, so seeing that single, lonely line Saturday afternoon was crushing to say the least. Still, I don't regret it. Testing early didn't change the outcome and it gave us both time together to process. What knowing didn't change is that it still hurt like hell hearing the nurse say the word "negative" on the phone this morning. I knew that's what she would say. I was fully prepared for it. So why did it still sting? Why does infertility continue to find new ways to make me hurt?
When I became a mom after so much pain and heartbreak, I knew that trying again one day would be hard, but I also knew it would never hurt that same way again. It would never be as raw and intense as the pain of having empty arms. When we finally started our FETs for baby #2, I was confident that I knew what to expect, that I wouldn't be surprised by pain like I had been in the past. But here I am shocked by all of the unexpected ways infertility wracked my emotions yet again. I was still right that it isn't as extreme of a pain as I endured before motherhood, but it is still pain nonetheless, and it still tears at all of my old wounds even as it rips open new ones.
This is my first IVF/FET cycle in which no implantation at all took place. Granted I've only had one child, but I have had 3 "pregnancies". I haven't stared down a straightforward BFN, with no confusing betas or possible positives since my clomid days 4 years ago. And while this complete failure is making me question whether I could have done anything different to get a better outcome, it has also verified a long held suspicion that even though a BFN hurts like hell, it isn't as unbearable as thinking I might actually be getting what I want and having it cruelly ripped away from me. So I guess I have that as a silver lining this cycle? Yeah I am not pregnant, but at least I never was? Honestly, when you are facing this heartbreak, you have to take what you can get when it comes to finding the good in it. And as pessimistic as I sound there is some good. Or at least some hope, anyway. We are very lucky in that we still have frozen embryos left so we can keep trying without having to worry about the time and expense of a fresh IVF cycle. Although, after two failed cycles, we seem to be investing quite a bit of time and money after all.
But back to the hope. As negative and angry as I feel at the moment, I know hope is still there. It isn't over and there is still a good chance that this will work in the end. Although, if I am being honest, I am not really certain of my belief that it will work, and in fact, I am kind of terrified that it won't. I am already crushed that my so many of my family dreams have had to be re-written or let go of altogether, I am just not ready to let go of this one yet. So for now, I am not going to. Thanks to travel and holiday schedules we won't be able to transfer again until next year, which kills me, but hopefully I can use this time off to relax and recharge before subjecting myself to hundreds more needles. I can only hope that the new year brings realized dreams along with it.
Yesterday was October 15, or as it is known in the infertility and loss communities- Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Each year on this day for quite a few years now, I have stopped to honor each of the parents that have faced the heartbreak of saying goodbye too soon. All over the world, fellow miscarriage, ectopic and infant loss sufferers send messages of support, light candles and remember the babies that live on in our hearts, despite us being unable to hold them in our arms. We say their names out loud, we share our stories with others, we mourn the lives we'll never know. It is simultaneously, a difficult and uplifting day. Every year, I am saddened by how many new members have joined the wretched & hellish world of loss but I am also awed and inspired by how many new supporters I discover. Each year there is a little bit less stigma, a tad less awkwardness and lot more love. It is amazing to witness in real time the growth that happens within society as a whole the more we talk about the realities of loss. And the reality is that it can and does happen to anyone. With an estimated 1 in 4 pregnancies ending is miscarriage or other loss, it is crucial that we are able to speak about these losses and the feelings that come with them.
It has been three years since my first miscarriage when Chad and I said goodbye to the dreams we had for our Sprout. My heart still can't help but wonder sometimes what life would have been like if that pregnancy hadn't ended in heartbreak. And now that my "Big Fat Maybe" is officially a Big Fat Chemical Pregnancy, I am already wondering what could have been if that embryo had continued growing instead of resulting in an early miscarriage. I probably will always wonder a bit about both of those pregnancies, about what could have been and I will always have cracks in my heart as result.
Those few hours of blissful hope after my positive home pregnancy test last month and then the devastation I felt once I learned the pregnancy wouldn't last, opened my eyes to how deeply I actually do want a second child. I have spent nearly three years shielding my heart and mind from believing it mattered to me as much it actually does. And seeing how much it also matters to Chad and Eliana, I can't help but dive back in, despite my earlier fears that I would need a much longer break before trying again. Granted, the actual transfer is still a little ways away, so there's still time to change my mind (and I have definitely already considered it) but for now I am moving forward to FET #3 with hope that this cycle will result in a much happier outcome.
And although October 15 is just one day and that day has come and gone this year, I will continue to honor the memories of all the little ones gone far too soon. The names of so many precious children are etched in my heart and I will carry them with me always. Ayla, Juliet, Thomas, Bayli, Rudyard, Desmond, Oscar, Audrey, Logan, Brody, Wyatt, Sophia, Caydence, TT and all the others we have lost- you are cherished, remembered and missed.
Today was the big day: Beta day. Oh how I dread beta day! The agony of waiting for that damn phone to ring after my blood has been drawn is one of the big reasons I kept putting of this FET. The day started out hopeful-ish. I went in for my blood draw early and was assured of a call before lunch. I have always waited for that call with my past cycles. I never poas (pee on a stick). Ever. I used to do pregnancy tests at home all the time back in my temping, charting, clomid days. I would squint and tilt and take photos so I could change the light & tint until I maybe saw a ghost of a second line. In reality, those sticks were always pure, stark white minus that one cruel line. And because it "could still be early", I would never truly lose hope until AF arrived and left me crying on my bathroom floor. It was a hell of a roller coaster and I have been terrified of it ever since I moved on to IVF so I always waited for beta. Until today.
Chad and I have both been so pessimistic, so afraid to even entertain the idea that this FET might really work that we agreed we wanted to find out together and on our terms. If it was negative, fine, but at least we'd be expecting it when the phone rang. So we left the RE's office & rushed to buy tests. I was too scared to look, so at first I just glanced out of the corner of my eye. One line. There was one line. But it had only been 30 seconds. So we both looked again and slowly a 2nd line was coming into view. It wasn't dark but it was clearly visible. No squinting, tilting or altering required! A second line! It was really happening! We were relieved and ready for the phone to ring. We didn't want to get too ahead of ourselves before we heard the numbers. But the call never came. Lunch came & went and the phone didn't ring. I've learned that clinic staff delays making "bad news" calls. They call their good news patients early. It only took 2 hours from blood draw to phone call when I got pregnant with Eliana. 1st beta- 737. Today, six hours had passed so finally I got sick of waiting and called them. The nurse did not sound cheerful or excited. She started with "congrats" but in a way that sounded like it had a question mark at the end of it. Then she told me my beta was 17. One freaking seven. My hope has plummeted to nearly zero. Either this is a chemical pregnancy/early miscarriage or the hCG booster I did last Monday still hasn't totally left my system. I have another beta on Thursday to see if my beta changes at all and yeah there is that small sliver of a chance that by some miracle it will shoot up but I'm not counting on it.
Honestly, it sounds awful, but I'm mostly hoping for a big drop. If this FET isn't the one, I just want to know. I don't want to ride the beta roller coaster again. Back in 2010 when I did my fresh IVF, my emotions were yanked in every possible direction with betas that rose but didn't double, then slightly rose again, then tripled. It was hell never knowing if that pregnancy was going to last. When I finally made it to ultrasound and there was no heartbeat, I was devastated and angry. If the cycle was not going to end in a baby, why did I have to endure that torture? A BFN would have hurt but it would have been easier to mourn. No ups and downs, no D&C, no miscarriage. That loss was painful and the merry-go-round that preceded it was hell. I do not want to do that again. I just want to know. Bad news hurts, it's awful, but it is better than maybes and we'll sees. Limbo sucks and I don't want any part of it.
I am so mad myself for peeing on that dumb stick and letting it get my hopes up! For those few, short hours, despite my attempts not to, I started to get attached. I began imagining whether Eliana would have a baby brother or sister in the spring. I started thinking about how it would feel to have a big round belly. I contemplated the number of weeks I would wait before telling my friends. I wasn't jumping up and down but I was truly hopeful. And I'm pissed at myself for that. I should have known better. It hurts more this way. It feels like someone offered me what I want most in the world and as soon as I reached to pick it up, they snatched it away and shouted, "Nope! Not this time!". The no sucks but not as much as hearing yes first and having it taken away.
My heart is slowly breaking. Nothing chips away at that crack quite as much as Eliana's sweet face and her requests for a baby brother or sister. Yesterday, totally out of the blue, she asked me if she could please have a baby brother or sister to hold. She wants it so badly. She tells me she will help with the baby and push the stroller. The hope and love in her eyes when she talks about it is indescribable. It kills me that I almost believed I would be able to fulfill that request nine months from now and now I am not sure when it might happen. I don't know for sure how quickly I will be ready to try again. My emotions just can't handle it. But no matter how sad or hurt I am about this cycle, I am nowhere near the point I was before Eliana was here. These are the same hurts, the same wounds, but they have scar tissue now. I will cry but I will have her to make me smile. I want another baby one day, I want her to have the sibling she craves, but she is enough. This is painful, yes, but it is nothing compared to the hurt of not yet being a mother. So, I will push through the next two days and hope that I have real, solid answers by then. I may cry, I may worry or panic, I may get pissed and hate most of the world, but in the end I will be OK. I just hope that end comes sooner rather than later.
I have started and left unfinished about a dozen different blog posts in the past month. I have simultaneously had so much on mind to work out and been working so hard to not think about what was coming, that I could never find the resolve to finish anything I started. Besides, once I write something down and hit "publish", its out there in the world and that makes it more real and infinitely more scary.
But now that the deed is officially done, I think it's time to break out of my hidey hole. I am currently, and for the third time in my life, officially PUPO (pregnant until proven otherwise). And I am terrified more than I probably have a right to be. Earlier today, I met with my embryologist and my amazing RE to have one perfect blastocyst thawed and transferred. This being my second ever FET (frozen embryo transfer) I felt simultaneously prepared and uncertain of what to expect. I remember the FET that brought us our precious Snow Pea so well, but that transfer came on the heels of a D&C following the failed pregnancy of my fresh IVF. I saw my RE and nurses constantly for months during that time. My life was consumed by nothing but trying to become a mom. Everything else came second. Everything.
This time around I could barely get up the guts to actually call my RE for the first consultation. I don't understand why, but I think the fabled "Infertility PTSD" hit me harder than I had realized. I have watched and cheered for so many of my fellow Infertile Parents as they have expanded their families with additional treatments or adoptions in the past two years. I never stop being thrilled for those friends who are fortunate enough to see their dreams come true and it is still thrilling to see it happen the second time. With each pal that embarked on treatment though, I became more nervous, more afraid. Originally, Chad and I had solid plans to start another FET nearly a year ago. But as that date drew near, we found reasons to move it back. Then the new planned time would come closer and we'd push it back again. There were always "reasons"- the sale of Chad's company, travel plans to visit family, wanting to sort out our finances. But the truth is I kept delaying because I was scared, too scared to move forward. Three years ago, we didn't let any of that get in our way. We were bright eyed, hopeful and desperate to be parents. Fear existed but our hope and our need to do everything we could in our quest for parenthood, outweighed any trepidation. We threw ourselves full force into every aspect of making our dream a reality.
Now that the dream has been realized, I kind of assumed that trying again one day would be a piece of cake. We have frozen embryos so that creates less strain both physically and financially. We knew what to expect and what our odds of success would be. And most important of all, we have the amazing little girl that made our dream of parenthood come true. If a second child isn't in our future, we are still parents. Our family of three is full of joy and happiness and if that is all we ever have, we will have more than enough. So when I realized how truly scared I was to try again, despite all of these things, I was surprised at myself. Every time I watched another friend on Twitter talk about starting treatments for baby #2, I marveled at her bravery and strength. I just didn't have it in me to even consider it yet. Strangely, knowing what to expect made me more nervous instead of less. I resented that I had to go through injections and medications and invasive ultrasounds and bloodwork and horrifically emotional waits all over again, just in the name of trying to have more of something I already feel beyond lucky to have at all. I mean, my dream was parenthood and I have that. Why should I have to go through that emotional hell again?
I have been absurdly low key about so much of this for a multitude of reasons. It feels incredibly selfish to think about baby #2 and to talk about how afraid I am to try again, when so many of those I love dearly are still fighting for baby #1. I know that my friends love and support me, no matter what mine or their circumstances may be, but I know it can still sting to be on that other side. Before my successful pregnancy, I had to avoid reading tweets and blogs from just about anyone that had moved forward to the next steps. I still loved & supported them and felt incredibly happy that their dream came true, but it hurt too much to expose myself directly to it. It may sound silly, but I felt like a jerk even considering making anyone listen to me whine about why I was afraid to do another FET. (you may have caught a vague tweet or two about this).
My crazy pessimism & fear has also made me very wary of having much conversation about the whole thing with anyone I know "in real life". The thought of giving updates to my friends and family throughout the whole process, answering questions, and putting on a optimistic, hopeful front just seemed so daunting and I wanted to do everything I could to avoid that. With that said, if we know each other in real life, please don't think I didn't want to talk to you personally. I'm just very guarded emotionally right now and it has no reflection on our relationship or how much I love you, because I promise I do. I just needed to protect myself. (also please keep what you are reading here to yourself, as I am still not sharing this widely).
The scariest thing of all of course, is realizing that in spite of my pessimism and bitterness about this whole process, hope has found it's way in. I can't help but envision our family of three becoming a family of four. I can't not see what an amazing big sister Eliana would be. How much she would love and care for a new baby. It really doesn't help my hopeful/fearful heart that she is now actually old enough to express these desires. "Mommy, may I have a baby brother, please?" is a popular request from her recently. She says it so sweetly, so sincerely, how can I not try to deliver?
The concept of family is one she is just beginning to learn and she is very excited to announce that Mommy and Daddy and Eliana are a family every chance she gets. I want to let go of the fear and be open to the hope that a new name will be added to her list soon, but if that doesn't happen for us, I know I will still be always happy, grateful and in love with the family I have. And that is stronger than any fear, guilt or stress I could ever face.
Most anyone that with access to social media the past day or so, has no doubt seen the heartwarming headlines about the birth of comedian Jimmy Fallon's daughter, Winnie, via surrogate. The infertility community in particular, is buzzing with the hashtag #thankyoujimmy and celebrating the celebrity's openness about the struggle with infertility that he and his wife endured for five years before finally welcoming their child.
With infertility still a taboo and misunderstood condition, and the treatments for it often even more so, it is the rare celebrity that speaks out so candidly about having struggled to become a parent. And anytime an actor, musician or public figure is willing to share this personal part of their lives, I am grateful. Grateful because their voice is frankly more public and therefore louder, than mine. I can blog all day long about how it feels to long for a family that you fear you may never have, how emotional and exhausting the treatments are, about the heartbreak of trying and failing or succeeding only to lose what you worked so hard for- but I will never have the reach of someone like Mr Fallon who has thousands of fans across the globe and a recent Emmy nomination. So when he shared the real, honest and emotional things about his and his wife's struggle it really meant a lot to me and other infertile men and women across the country.
Every time a celebrity "comes out" about their infertility, the rest of the world gains just a bit more understanding. Ordinary people who may have had no trouble conceiving, are able to see that infertility really can affect anyone. It also opens up conversation and I often have friends and family become curious and ask questions about what infertility really means, how a treatment actually works. Walls come down and silence is broken. Celebrity confessions take the disease itself out of the shadows. They encourage those of us that have been suffering in silence to share our stories with friends and families.There is so much good that comes from speaking out and celebrating all of the ways families are made. For that I am and always will be grateful to Jimmy and have respect for him.
I do however, have some concerns about his remarks as well. The first and most obvious being the one that comes up in just about every celebrity infertility story- their access and ability to afford treatment. In his interview, Jimmy encouraged anyone struggling to have a child to try every avenue in the quest to become a parent. But as we all know, that just isn't a realistic option for everyone. Infertility treatments are very rarely covered by health insurance and even when they are, often have caps that would prevent many people from ever being able to afford expensive options like surrogacy. I consider myself incredibly fortunate that my husband and I had the resources to assist with our IVF and FET cycles, but for many that option just doesn't exist, let alone more expensive treatments like egg donation or surrogacy. If it were up to me, we would all have the option to "do whatever it takes" as Jimmy encourages, because cost wouldn't be the barrier that it currently is, but we have a long way to go in making that a reality.
The other concern that struck me immediately, even before the cost barrier, is what his message of hope and never giving up must sound like to the childless community. To those who have already tried everything they are financially and emotionally capable of trying and have decided that a life without children is the best resolution to their infertility, the constant barrage of "always keep trying" becomes a dagger in the heart. It seems as if the rest of the infertile community is accusing them of giving up. It unintentionally alienates and discounts a large part of our community and can be very painful. I understand completely where Jimmy was coming from when he said what he did about not losing hope. As someone who has fallen on and off the hope wagon herself, and finally realized her dream when hope was at an all time low, I know that feeling of relief that "one more try" really did do the trick. It's a message that so many of us desperately need to hear when we are in the trenches. Hope is pretty much the only thing that keeps many of us going some days. And often because our own hope is depleted, it is messages of support and encouragement from others that gets us through. Hearing Jimmy Fallon, or anyone that has been through it, tell you to keep going, keep trying because you will end up with a family and that all the work is worth it, it's the most worth it thing, can be powerful, inspiring and give you hope when all seems lost. But it can also feel like a slap in the face to someone who has already moved forward from treatment and onto adoption or to finding other "worth it" things to make their lives complete.
Of course, I don't mean to imply that Jimmy Fallon meant any ill-will or has done anything wrong. He doesn't have any sort of obligation to anyone and I appreciate the way he empathized and showed support for fellow members of this community. I applaud him for his heartfelt openness and congratulate him and his wife on becoming parents. But I do wish to see more conversation and understanding about the concerns I mentioned, as well. I hope that the positive reaction he has received in the media and from his fans encourages more discussion, more education and more change with the way infertility is regarded and that one day this illness is no longer something to "come out of the closet" of. Thank you, Jimmy, for sharing your story and for being a voice. And to all of you who aren't necessarily famous comedians or producers, or even suffering from infertility- thank you for speaking out, thank you for taking the time to read and learn more, thank you for being involved, thank you.
Well, just one word:
BENIGN!
P.S. Thank you so much to everyone for the support and well wishes. Love to you all!
