Part 1: Fertility/Infertility
They don’t talk about it often enough. The subjects of fertility and infertility. No one tells you how taxing the process of becoming and being pregnant naturally are, and they, most certainly, don’t tell you how ten times more taxing it is going through fertility treatments.
It’s been almost two years since we began. I made the decision, before meeting my partner, that I was going to be a mom. With or without someone. I wanted to be a mom. I had that mom thing in me, and I wasn’t going to wait to find someone to do that with. I was 33 when we met. I’m 36.9 now haha.
In the course of our relationship, children came up, especially since he had a daughter from a previous relationship. I said, whether this relationship works or not, I’ll do it on my own. He wasn’t having it. We weren’t careful. It was more like a “whatever happens happens” kind of thing. We weren’t tracking or even thinking about it. But then months and months passed and nothing.
Come June of 2018, we started paying close attention to apps that tracked my menstrual cycle and paid attention to the fertile window. Nothing. By September, we spoke to my doctor. We started ovulation kits. We used preseed. We followed every instruction given to us. Nothing.
By January 2019, we were in a fertility office.
We had done some blood work and semen analysis from my gynecological office, and the fertility doctor seemed very optimistic. Everything looked great according to him.
Being that I had some experience with infertility from friends and family, I asked all the right questions. What tests will we do? Will we check for blockages? Nope- everything seems pretty good. He doubted I had any blockages. By the end of the month, I was on Femara, holding my head up and crying from the headaches, emotions running rapid, and we were on our way for our first IUI. HCG shots in February IUI. March IUI. Switch to Clomid. April IUI. May IUI.
Nothing. They explained to me the finances of the IVF process.
You see, my insurance is great, but it only covers about 75% of the IVF process and only three rounds. The out of pocket costs even with awesome insurance is financially debilitating. But hey, I want to be a mom, so yes. I am going to pay it. Just not at this doctor because they were ready to throw me into my first IVF cycle, take my money, and disappoint me yet again, while wasting my ⅓ cycles covered, without any testing. No thank you.
June 2019. Fertility doctor number 2. We don’t start anything until we do all the tests.
Turns out my right fallopian tube is blocked. Usually, a pretty significant sign of endometriosis, along with all the insane symptoms I thought were normal.
In the midst of all this, my relationship fell apart. I had recently sold my apartment, was in contract to buy a house, had to move in with my parents while the deals went through. That wasn’t going to stop me. I already made the decision years ago I was going to do this alone, so alone I go. Somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, we reconciled.
So there he was, on October 9th, 2019, taking me to my surgery. Laparoscopy.
Stage 4 Endo. It was so bad my intestines were stuck to my stomach and my fallopian tube couldn’t be opened. Well, I’m sure that didn’t help my IBS- another symptom of endometriosis I didn’t know about. There were so many, and it finally all began to make sense. I have suffered in silence, thinking this is just my body’s normal. It’s not. It’s not normal ladies. Pain isn’t normal. Don’t normalize being in pain all the time, normalize talking about it, seeing a doctor, getting answers, and taking the proper steps to be healthy.
December 2019, first IUI cleared of endo. Nothing. January 2020. Nothing. IVF it is.
And so it began. Gonal. Menopur. HCG. Lupron, Cetrotide. I think, at one point, I was up to 6 shots a day. Maybe more. Who knows. Swallow the pills, take the shots, cry on the inside, wake up at 4am to make your multiple appointments a week, give blood every day, my poor little veins were tired.
March-Egg retrieval number 1. Not a good one. 7 eggs, 4 embryos, 1 healthy. One. One fucking embryo after all that? God must hate me.
April. Covid. Nope.
May-Do it again. All of it. All over again. Egg retrieval number 2. 17 eggs. 9 Embryos. 5 healthy. Now we have 6.
Let’s keep in mind, Covid. No one, but me, is allowed to come to these appointments. He was only allowed to come during surgery days because a) we needed a sample to create the embryos and b) I needed an escort to take me home. Every other appointment, alone. Most days, if he could, he drove, waiting in the car, but alone I went, inside, with a mask. In fear. Temperature check. Alone in the room with strangers.
But a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.
June- Hysteroscopy. Let’s check that ever-growing endometriosis uterus of mine. Remove any polyps, cysts, or fibroids. And let’s get ready for that baby. Done.
Start Lupron Injections. Start estradiol. Get massive migraines and go to sleep by 9. Start progesterone oil. Get massive painful bumps on the back of your hips that even the slightest touch will make you cry. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t get covid. 14th Covid tests later, my uterus is ready for my baby. I told them to choose.
August 17th, 2020: Walk in-Uterus is 2 weeks pregnant, walk out 2 weeks and 5 days pregnant. The baby is in there. And the anxiety sets in. Don’t make sudden movements, don’t lift anything, eat anything bad, rest, relax, take it easy. And Wait. Another 2 week fucking wait. As if my nerves aren’t already shot.
Two week wait. Good news. Don’t get excited. Now we monitor.
Week by week, my baby is growing. Week by week I can’t smell certain things. Week by week, the nausea and exhaustion are beyond anything I ever knew. No sex until we hear a heartbeat.
Week 6, the strongest little heartbeat I ever did hear. Day after day, injections, pills, vitamins. Everything. I am doing everything right. Starting to get excited.
Week 7, another heartbeat. The sweetest sound.
Week 8 day 5. No heartbeat.
I thought I knew heartbreak. I sure as hell didn’t until I realized my baby was dead inside of me.
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Part 2: Miscarriage/Pregnancy Loss
It was September 28th. And we lost our son. It was boy.
We lost our son. It was the hardest day of my life. Our life. Looking for the thump on the screen and not seeing it. The scramble to find the heartbeat and not finding it. The look of panic and pity in the doctor’s eyes as he is about to tell you your child is lifeless inside of you. The lonely feeling of being surrounded by strangers in your hardest moment since your partner isn’t allowed in the office because of Covid. Choking on your tears inside the mask that muffles the sounds of your heart breaking.
Baby Steven. Named before we were pregnant because we asked Agio Styliano, the saint of children and fertility, to help us. We promised we would name our baby after him if he answered our prayers. And he did, for a moment in time, he did. We were more afraid than excited. Neither one of us is used to good news. We didn’t really know what to do with it. We were scared to be happy and excited. But we were, cautiously. We made minimal plans, cautiously. We spoke of the future of our family, cautiously. We smiled and giggled, cautiously. And then the rug was pulled out from under us. I got the wind knocked out of me on Monday, with no real time to process before bigger moves were made.
Within the hour of finding out my baby was dead, I had to go for covid testing prior to the surgery I would have two days later to remove him. I would have to do pre surgical testing hours after the 31 vials of blood I gave that morning thinking I was still pregnant for routine testing. My arms are tired of being pricked and my soul is tired of patching up the wounds. It’s already been close to two years. I have sat in so many rooms alone- not by choice. My partner was at every appointment he was allowed to be in with me. His sad eyes looking at me as they wheeled me into pre surgery holding made my heart even more sad. He was hurting for both of us. He would switch places with me if he could, I know it. He held me so tight with every prick of a needle. He stroked my hair helplessly and he always kisses me endless, hoping both our aches would go away. Together I know we could conquer everything.
We’re not the first and we won’t be the last. This is common. This happens to too many couples and families. So many women know the ache of this magnanimous misfortune. But this is not where we lose hope. This is where we pray for the soul of our lost son, the one we will always keep in our hearts, and try again.
I am a mommy of an angel in heaven, and although his heart never beat outside of my womb, he will always be my son. But this is where we try again because defeat and giving up is not an option. We already made that promise to each other. We already know there will be a little us. A healthy little us. One where we will love unconditionally, where we will teach all the things we were never taught, where we will help mold into a healthy little soul so he/she doesn’t have to figure it out alone. The world is cruel and ugly, and although we will protect our little us from it, we will also teach it how to overcome the obstacles, hopefully, without falling into the same unhealthy holes we fell into.
The journey has been long. It has been hard and around every corner, another disappointment. Sometimes, it feels like there is no point in picking yourself back up, but we do. Back to back, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, we do.
I can not begin to express the love, kindness and support I was exposed to when I let the world know we lost our son. The countless number of messages of women sharing their stories of loss, of guilt, of suffering alone because they thought they did something wrong or that they were the only ones. Men, reaching out, sharing their stories about their families losing and how hard it was. Fellow humans who may not have known the pain, but let me know they are thinking of me, and that they are praying for me- and although I don’t quite believe the same way they do, their prayers are hugging me.
Strangers, looking at my chart, and despite the current climate in the pandemic we are facing, held my hand and hugged me. Strangers. Sharing their stories. Letting me know they, too, have suffered a loss.
In a strange way, because I wish this on no one, not even the worst people in the world, there is comfort in knowing you are not alone. There is unity in community.
We can heal from anything when we come together and share our stories, with anything.
There is nothing worse than sitting lonely in your pain.
We have to normalize certain conversations, including ones like this, to let people know they are not alone.
lenigian.com 