“I haven’t had a chance to see you since you’re all on the other side of the building, but I wanted to tell you I won’t be here next year--we’re expecting!”
The conversation was like many others that teachers have in passing--quick and interrupted; hallways buzzing with teachers and students alike. I raced back to my classroom, fully intending to take advantage of the 20 minutes of time I would have before it was time to pick my kids up again...but I could not focus. “Ohh no-” she had said, “This has been nine years and thousands of dollars in the making.” I don’t even remember the question that prompted these few words that would change me, but nevertheless, they did.
That was the beginning. The first time I found someone who knew my struggle. The first time I could talk about our journey with infertility without feeling judged or vulnerable; the first time I could really listen to another woman’s pregnancy stories without feeling like my heart was breaking with every word they spoke. The first time another woman gave me a sense of hope within my grief.
It started out selfishly, me wanting to hear everything about her journey through infertility, what IVF was like, how to navigate this world that was so very new to me. It made me feel less broken. It made me feel less alone.
Over the next four months she shared everything with me--all the details; the least painful shot locations and all the right questions to ask our doctors. She didn’t know, but she was my inspiration. If she had overcome a miscarriage, nine years of waiting; wishing, and finally IVF treatments, I could, too.
In April, four months after she first opened up to me about her long-time struggle and her new pregnancy, she gave birth to Wesley at 20 weeks. She said hello and goodbye to her baby in the same day and her dreams were crushed again. My heart broke for her.
I was sad for her and scared for me all at the same time. I had never known someone who had suffered any kind of loss and it opened up a whole new world to me; a scary one. I realized for the first time that even if my IVF treatments worked and I got pregnant, there was this chance that I could lose that baby just like she lost Wesley. How was I 29 years old and thinking about this reality for the first time? Because women feel silenced and do not talk about it.
Not her, though, she refused to be silenced and shared her pain with me and others around her. She remembered Wesley, she said his name all the time. While I know it must have felt like she would never truly pick up all of the pieces as her whole world came crumbling down around her, she lived. She lived and somehow, although it terrified me, her heartbreak gave me strength. Not because of the loss she had suffered, but because of how she handled it. Every time I felt like giving up on my own struggle with infertility, I remembered her. Her grace and courage as she braved forward amidst the unknown, amidst the heartbreak.
She’s due to give birth to her rainbow baby this month. We talk often and she shares her pregnancy stories and I watch her belly grow. She sends me pictures of her nursery ideas, we talk about fabric choices and paint colors; I get an update after nearly every doctor’s appointment. I thought we would be doing this together. Early on we would talk about play dates and said we would each probably be the overprotective type because we had to fight so hard to bring our babies into this world. But, I’m still fighting.
I thought I would be sad. I guess there’s a part of me that is. She’s not on this journey with me anymore. I’m still fighting and in two weeks she will be holding her baby in her arms and taking him home. But there’s so much more than that twinge of sadness. There’s happiness, there’s hopefulness, there’s a lesson to be learned for all of us still fighting our way through this journey.
She never gave up. Her heart was broken, her world was shattered, but she never gave up. So, in a sense, this rainbow baby of hers is a rainbow to all of us. A light to guide each of us through our own storm and a beautiful reminder that in time, we will all get our own rainbow in one way or another.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Thursday, July 21, 2016
An Open Letter To The TTC Sisterhood
If you’re reading this letter because it’s addressed to you, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that even though you make it your mission to stay positive and grateful, you wake up every day with an ache in your heart that never seems to go away.
I’m sorry that people can so unrelenting and naive about your struggle. “When are you having kids?” “You just need to relax and it’ll happen!” “Have you tried tracking your cycle?” “You should really just adopt.” “Maybe your body is trying to tell you something.”
I’m sorry that when people are so unrelenting and naive you have to calm that lump in your throat before it turns into sobs, the anger in your heart before it turns into rage, and answer with dignity and grace when it feels like all you can muster is something far less becoming.
I’m sorry that you have to walk by that unfinished “guest room” every day and be reminded it was supposed to be a nursery a long time ago.
I’m sorry your relationship has been tested to the limits by everything you have had to endure together.
I’m sorry opening every baby shower invitation brings tears to your eyes when it should bring happiness to your heart.
I’m sorry you’ve been unable to make your parents grandparents when you know they’d be the best grandparents, ever. I’m sorry you feel guilty because of it.
I’m sorry you have to watch the world go on around you when it feels like your whole world is falling apart.
I’m sorry that the emotional burden is not the only one you carry. I’m sorry you have to put yourself into debt just to create the family you’ve always dreamed you’d have.
I’m sorry a diaper commercial can make you cry because you’ve held it together just long enough to get through the day without anyone knowing the sadness you carry.
I’m sorry you feel like you body has failed you.
I’m sorry you feel like you’re in this struggle alone.
But, you’re not. I’m here with you.
The truth is, you don’t need me to tell you all the reasons I’m sorry to be a part of this sisterhood--you live it every day. You carry the same heartache and torment that I do. Right now, maybe you need are all the reasons why I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry you have learned to love yourself for your strength and courage. This journey is not easy, but you still get up every morning and find your inner strength even when it feels like there is none left.
I’m not sorry you have learned to be vulnerable with those that you love. Sharing a private struggle like infertility can be terrifying, but vulnerability is not a weakness, it is heroic.
I’m not sorry this struggle will make you an even better mom someday. You have learned patience and compassion and have gained a gentleness that can only be created through a heartache like this one.
I’m not sorry that your pain has helped you to find a voice to help others when they feel alone.
I’m not sorry that you’ve found the real meaning of friendship; learning to let some relationships go while growing others that are more fulfilling.
I’m not sorry you have learned how to really be there for your partner when they need you. I’m not sorry you’ve learned to let this heartache bring you closer instead of letting it tear you apart.
I’m not sorry you have had to learn how to put yourself first, placing your own needs before the needs of others.
I’m not sorry you have had to learn how to put all of your faith into something that carries no certainty, no guarantees. But have learned to appreciate that there’s always a chance. Always.
I’m not sorry that this struggle has forced you to be grateful for all that you do have in this life and I’m not sorry that it’s taught you to appreciate the small things.
I’m not sorry that we’re all in this together.
Hundreds or even thousands of miles apart, we are all living the same story. So even if it’s just for today, or even just in this moment, try not to be sorry you are a part of our sisterhood. We are some of the strongest women I know, and we’re all in this together.
I’m sorry that even though you make it your mission to stay positive and grateful, you wake up every day with an ache in your heart that never seems to go away.
I’m sorry that people can so unrelenting and naive about your struggle. “When are you having kids?” “You just need to relax and it’ll happen!” “Have you tried tracking your cycle?” “You should really just adopt.” “Maybe your body is trying to tell you something.”
I’m sorry that when people are so unrelenting and naive you have to calm that lump in your throat before it turns into sobs, the anger in your heart before it turns into rage, and answer with dignity and grace when it feels like all you can muster is something far less becoming.
I’m sorry that you have to walk by that unfinished “guest room” every day and be reminded it was supposed to be a nursery a long time ago.
I’m sorry your relationship has been tested to the limits by everything you have had to endure together.
I’m sorry opening every baby shower invitation brings tears to your eyes when it should bring happiness to your heart.
I’m sorry you’ve been unable to make your parents grandparents when you know they’d be the best grandparents, ever. I’m sorry you feel guilty because of it.
I’m sorry you have to watch the world go on around you when it feels like your whole world is falling apart.
I’m sorry that the emotional burden is not the only one you carry. I’m sorry you have to put yourself into debt just to create the family you’ve always dreamed you’d have.
I’m sorry a diaper commercial can make you cry because you’ve held it together just long enough to get through the day without anyone knowing the sadness you carry.
I’m sorry you feel like you body has failed you.
I’m sorry you feel like you’re in this struggle alone.
But, you’re not. I’m here with you.
The truth is, you don’t need me to tell you all the reasons I’m sorry to be a part of this sisterhood--you live it every day. You carry the same heartache and torment that I do. Right now, maybe you need are all the reasons why I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry you have learned to love yourself for your strength and courage. This journey is not easy, but you still get up every morning and find your inner strength even when it feels like there is none left.
I’m not sorry you have learned to be vulnerable with those that you love. Sharing a private struggle like infertility can be terrifying, but vulnerability is not a weakness, it is heroic.
I’m not sorry this struggle will make you an even better mom someday. You have learned patience and compassion and have gained a gentleness that can only be created through a heartache like this one.
I’m not sorry that your pain has helped you to find a voice to help others when they feel alone.
I’m not sorry that you’ve found the real meaning of friendship; learning to let some relationships go while growing others that are more fulfilling.
I’m not sorry you have learned how to really be there for your partner when they need you. I’m not sorry you’ve learned to let this heartache bring you closer instead of letting it tear you apart.
I’m not sorry you have had to learn how to put yourself first, placing your own needs before the needs of others.
I’m not sorry you have had to learn how to put all of your faith into something that carries no certainty, no guarantees. But have learned to appreciate that there’s always a chance. Always.
I’m not sorry that this struggle has forced you to be grateful for all that you do have in this life and I’m not sorry that it’s taught you to appreciate the small things.
I’m not sorry that we’re all in this together.
Hundreds or even thousands of miles apart, we are all living the same story. So even if it’s just for today, or even just in this moment, try not to be sorry you are a part of our sisterhood. We are some of the strongest women I know, and we’re all in this together.
Why I Decided To Crowdfund To Pay For IVF
I was 26 when we decided we were ready to start a family. I had been dreaming of this moment since the day we got married and my heart was so full thinking of the life that lay ahead of us. We were going to be great parents.
Four long, heartbreaking years later, I find myself still waiting for that dream to come true.
When we first found out we would need to rely on fertility treatments to get pregnant, of course, we were devastated. I never imagined this is what it would take to start a family. I had the same hopes and dreams as many other women (you know, finding out I was pregnant the first month of trying and surprising my husband with a "World's Best Daddy” onsie).
What turned out to be equally as painful was the realization that in our state, insurance does not cover any of the costs related to fertility treatments. After two rounds of IUI, we knew the right choice for us was to move into In Vitro Fertilization. This decision also came with a $12,000 price tag and an ever-present worry about how we were going to pay for it all out of pocket.
"We'll take a year off and save," we said. And we did. We saved enough to pay for our first treatment cycle and we thought our worries were over. We have never been more wrong.
In the last year, we have been through more as a couple than I ever thought we would encounter throughout our entire lives together. The unceasing anguish of four failed IVF cycles took its toll on our marriage as we tried to navigate our own emotions while supporting one another, too. “Everything will be alright as long as we have each other,” we would say, but things are never that easy. We worked hard to be there for one another, and we were. We are. But there is this lingering worry about how we will continue on when what lies ahead of us carries a $17,000 price tag.
When we first began our IVF journey and would tell people it’s not covered by insurance in Maine, they would say, “You guys should start one of those crowd- funding things!” I would cringe at the thought. I hated seeing those myself, and a crowdfunding plea for IVF, I did not want to appear that desperate. The things people would think about me!
I’ve changed a lot since then. When we first sought help for our struggle with infertility, I made it my mission to make sure no one knew. “When are you guys going to have kids?” everyone would ask. “Oh, gosh, not for at least a few more years!” I would say, and it felt like a little piece of me died every time I said it. Looking back, my reasons for keeping our struggle a secret were the exact same reasons I refused to ask for any sort of financial help--even $30,000 later. I was too worried about what other people would think.
I have spent my whole life creating an image for other people. I did all the ‘right’ things, in the ‘right’ order for everyone else just as much as I did them for myself. How sad is that? It has only been in the last year that I have learned that people are always going to judge you and point fingers but that their opinion of you is just that...their opinion. I have let others be my biggest limitation my whole life and for once, I am going to do exactly what my heart tells me I need to do instead of letting my fear decide for me.
IVF is controversial. There are undoubtedly those people who loathe the idea of it (believe me, I have already encountered my fair share of them) and there are those who just don’t understand it. Both are okay. I don’t expect everyone to support our journey, or even agree with it. Our decision to use crowd funding to help us build a family is not something we take lightly. In fact, this has been one of the hardest things that we have ever done and has only come after months and months of deliberation.
But it comes down to this: Right now, there are people who want to help us. Family and friends who know how much I want to carry a child of my own and what great parents we will be someday. Family and friends who want this as badly for us as we want it for ourselves. We don’t know what will come as a result of our crowdfunding, and no matter what happens, this will not be the end for us. But what I do know is, for us, even putting it out there is another small victory in this long, unyielding road that is IVF.
Four long, heartbreaking years later, I find myself still waiting for that dream to come true.
When we first found out we would need to rely on fertility treatments to get pregnant, of course, we were devastated. I never imagined this is what it would take to start a family. I had the same hopes and dreams as many other women (you know, finding out I was pregnant the first month of trying and surprising my husband with a "World's Best Daddy” onsie).
What turned out to be equally as painful was the realization that in our state, insurance does not cover any of the costs related to fertility treatments. After two rounds of IUI, we knew the right choice for us was to move into In Vitro Fertilization. This decision also came with a $12,000 price tag and an ever-present worry about how we were going to pay for it all out of pocket.
"We'll take a year off and save," we said. And we did. We saved enough to pay for our first treatment cycle and we thought our worries were over. We have never been more wrong.
In the last year, we have been through more as a couple than I ever thought we would encounter throughout our entire lives together. The unceasing anguish of four failed IVF cycles took its toll on our marriage as we tried to navigate our own emotions while supporting one another, too. “Everything will be alright as long as we have each other,” we would say, but things are never that easy. We worked hard to be there for one another, and we were. We are. But there is this lingering worry about how we will continue on when what lies ahead of us carries a $17,000 price tag.
When we first began our IVF journey and would tell people it’s not covered by insurance in Maine, they would say, “You guys should start one of those crowd- funding things!” I would cringe at the thought. I hated seeing those myself, and a crowdfunding plea for IVF, I did not want to appear that desperate. The things people would think about me!
I’ve changed a lot since then. When we first sought help for our struggle with infertility, I made it my mission to make sure no one knew. “When are you guys going to have kids?” everyone would ask. “Oh, gosh, not for at least a few more years!” I would say, and it felt like a little piece of me died every time I said it. Looking back, my reasons for keeping our struggle a secret were the exact same reasons I refused to ask for any sort of financial help--even $30,000 later. I was too worried about what other people would think.
I have spent my whole life creating an image for other people. I did all the ‘right’ things, in the ‘right’ order for everyone else just as much as I did them for myself. How sad is that? It has only been in the last year that I have learned that people are always going to judge you and point fingers but that their opinion of you is just that...their opinion. I have let others be my biggest limitation my whole life and for once, I am going to do exactly what my heart tells me I need to do instead of letting my fear decide for me.
IVF is controversial. There are undoubtedly those people who loathe the idea of it (believe me, I have already encountered my fair share of them) and there are those who just don’t understand it. Both are okay. I don’t expect everyone to support our journey, or even agree with it. Our decision to use crowd funding to help us build a family is not something we take lightly. In fact, this has been one of the hardest things that we have ever done and has only come after months and months of deliberation.
But it comes down to this: Right now, there are people who want to help us. Family and friends who know how much I want to carry a child of my own and what great parents we will be someday. Family and friends who want this as badly for us as we want it for ourselves. We don’t know what will come as a result of our crowdfunding, and no matter what happens, this will not be the end for us. But what I do know is, for us, even putting it out there is another small victory in this long, unyielding road that is IVF.
Monday, April 25, 2016
5 Things Infertility has Taught Me
When faced with infertility, you have two choices: You can dwell on the heartbreak, the unfairness, the frustration, the anger, or, you can take what's happening to you and choose to learn from it. You can choose to grow into a better person than you were when your journey began.
Struggling with infertility for four years, I have learned that every day is a battle. Sure, a battle against a world where infertility is still taboo, but more importantly, a battle against yourself. A silent struggle to stay positive when every day you're reminded of what you don't have. But, instead of letting the anger and sadness consume me, I have chosen to focus on all that infertility has taught me-and how I am a better person because of it.
1. I am capable of so much more than I ever thought. I don't know how many times over the past four years I have said, "I can't do this anymore."...and then, I do. The constant doctor's appointments, the financial stress of repeated IVF attempts, the gut-wrenching feeling I get every time I see a new pregnancy announcement or a diaper commercial on TV. There have been so many times I could have given up. So many times I could have said, "that's it, no more needles, no more medication, no more rearranging my whole life to get pregnant." Our journey to become parents isn't over yet, but I have learned to look in the mirror and see someone with tenacity and courage instead of someone who is inadequate. Infertility has taught me there's nothing I can't do.
2. Patience. I used to not be able to go to bed with dirty dishes still in the sink. I used to get annoyed when someone would use the "express lane" at the grocery store with more than the mandated 14 items. I used to mutter, "come on" to myself when someone ahead of me didn't go the minute the light turned green. I have always lived my life according to a schedule and had no time to waste. I got married at 25. Strategically, we moved in with family to pay off student loans and save money for a down payment on our dream home. Everything was going according to plan-just like my whole life before had. When I didn't get pregnant right away, I didn't understand why. I had done everything the way I was supposed to. I have had to learn that life doesn't happen according to some predetermined plan we set up for ourselves at age 20. For the first time, I have had to learn that I have no control, and I have to be okay with it. Infertility has taught me to live spontaneously and cherish the day to day. There's no telling what will happen tomorrow.
3. I know no one's story. Just like no one knows mine. We are so quick to judge in this world and infertility has taught me that there's always something more to the story. It has opened me up in a way that I never would have dreamed possible and has taught me to look deeper into those around me instead of being so quick to make unwarranted assumptions. We are all walking through this life carrying some sort of burden or heartache. How beautiful this world could be if only we could all recognize that.
4. The whole "TTC sisterhood" thing is real. When we first opened up to people about our struggles with infertility, we were greeted by so much love and support I thought my heart would burst. There was still a part of me that felt like I wasn't understood, though. All of our friends and family had been able to conceive naturally and, try as they might, they would never be able to really understand the struggle and the turmoil of it all. After going public (Facebook, obviously), I had a few acquaintances reach out to me with their stories of infertility. We began talking more and sharing our journeys, and I have never had friendships grow so quickly. These are the people I could trust with my secrets without the fear of being judged-they knew me, because, in a sense, they were me. Then I started searching for infertility hashtags and the results were overwhelming. I would log on to Instagram daily just to follow the journeys of countless women I didn't even know...only, I did. After many of these women got pregnant, they would continue to post pictures of their pregnancies and babies to remind the rest of us that miracles happen just as you're ready to give up. I hope to be one of those women, someday.
5.I am thankful for what I do have. The turbulence that is infertility can knock you down over and over again. It is so easy to hide away in shame, anger and fear and let your whole life pass you by. Just minutes after I found out our second round of IVF had failed, I came to learn that a very close friend from high school had passed after a long and courageous battle with cancer. He had just turned 30. As I sat there in the midst of sobs, writhing from our second IVF failure, I thought, "How selfish am I?". I'm here. I'm here waking up to my husband who's still sleeping peacefully next to me. What others wouldn't give to have what I have in this very moment. That's not to say I didn't allow myself to feel sorry-It's part of the process. But what it does mean is that I'm not allowed to give up on the rest of my day to day life because having a baby isn't happening according to plan. I have so much to be thankful for and I am going to live every day acting like it.
Struggling with infertility for four years, I have learned that every day is a battle. Sure, a battle against a world where infertility is still taboo, but more importantly, a battle against yourself. A silent struggle to stay positive when every day you're reminded of what you don't have. But, instead of letting the anger and sadness consume me, I have chosen to focus on all that infertility has taught me-and how I am a better person because of it.
1. I am capable of so much more than I ever thought. I don't know how many times over the past four years I have said, "I can't do this anymore."...and then, I do. The constant doctor's appointments, the financial stress of repeated IVF attempts, the gut-wrenching feeling I get every time I see a new pregnancy announcement or a diaper commercial on TV. There have been so many times I could have given up. So many times I could have said, "that's it, no more needles, no more medication, no more rearranging my whole life to get pregnant." Our journey to become parents isn't over yet, but I have learned to look in the mirror and see someone with tenacity and courage instead of someone who is inadequate. Infertility has taught me there's nothing I can't do.
2. Patience. I used to not be able to go to bed with dirty dishes still in the sink. I used to get annoyed when someone would use the "express lane" at the grocery store with more than the mandated 14 items. I used to mutter, "come on" to myself when someone ahead of me didn't go the minute the light turned green. I have always lived my life according to a schedule and had no time to waste. I got married at 25. Strategically, we moved in with family to pay off student loans and save money for a down payment on our dream home. Everything was going according to plan-just like my whole life before had. When I didn't get pregnant right away, I didn't understand why. I had done everything the way I was supposed to. I have had to learn that life doesn't happen according to some predetermined plan we set up for ourselves at age 20. For the first time, I have had to learn that I have no control, and I have to be okay with it. Infertility has taught me to live spontaneously and cherish the day to day. There's no telling what will happen tomorrow.
3. I know no one's story. Just like no one knows mine. We are so quick to judge in this world and infertility has taught me that there's always something more to the story. It has opened me up in a way that I never would have dreamed possible and has taught me to look deeper into those around me instead of being so quick to make unwarranted assumptions. We are all walking through this life carrying some sort of burden or heartache. How beautiful this world could be if only we could all recognize that.
4. The whole "TTC sisterhood" thing is real. When we first opened up to people about our struggles with infertility, we were greeted by so much love and support I thought my heart would burst. There was still a part of me that felt like I wasn't understood, though. All of our friends and family had been able to conceive naturally and, try as they might, they would never be able to really understand the struggle and the turmoil of it all. After going public (Facebook, obviously), I had a few acquaintances reach out to me with their stories of infertility. We began talking more and sharing our journeys, and I have never had friendships grow so quickly. These are the people I could trust with my secrets without the fear of being judged-they knew me, because, in a sense, they were me. Then I started searching for infertility hashtags and the results were overwhelming. I would log on to Instagram daily just to follow the journeys of countless women I didn't even know...only, I did. After many of these women got pregnant, they would continue to post pictures of their pregnancies and babies to remind the rest of us that miracles happen just as you're ready to give up. I hope to be one of those women, someday.
5.I am thankful for what I do have. The turbulence that is infertility can knock you down over and over again. It is so easy to hide away in shame, anger and fear and let your whole life pass you by. Just minutes after I found out our second round of IVF had failed, I came to learn that a very close friend from high school had passed after a long and courageous battle with cancer. He had just turned 30. As I sat there in the midst of sobs, writhing from our second IVF failure, I thought, "How selfish am I?". I'm here. I'm here waking up to my husband who's still sleeping peacefully next to me. What others wouldn't give to have what I have in this very moment. That's not to say I didn't allow myself to feel sorry-It's part of the process. But what it does mean is that I'm not allowed to give up on the rest of my day to day life because having a baby isn't happening according to plan. I have so much to be thankful for and I am going to live every day acting like it.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
We walked hand in hand into our ‘preconception’ appointment that day. It was May 20th, 2012. I had already been on prenatal vitamins for months, just to be safe. I wanted to do everything ‘right’. I still remember our excitement as we told our doctor we were ready to start a family-we had already begun a beautiful life together and my mind and my heart were full as we dreamed about the life that lay ahead of us.
A year later, our hearts, once full of excitement and possibility, were broken. The doctor at Boston IVF had just told us that if it hadn’t happened yet, our chances were about 3% that it would. We were determined to do whatever it took to start family and, so, the endless tests ensued. The result of weekly appointments and hundreds of dollars seemed to have landed us no closer to our dream; doctors could find nothing wrong with either one of us. “There’s no reason it hasn’t happened, they said, “It just hasn’t”.
We discussed our options and decided to try IUI. Doctors told us this procedure only had a 15-20% success rate, but we were optimistic. The daily doses of Clomid took its toll on me; the fainting and the nausea were the tolerable symptoms. “One day at a time-you can do this.” Joe would say, and he was with me every step of the way. But, $1,500 and two failed IUIs later told us our journey was far from over.
Then, we waited. We waited a whole year. We tried to let our hearts heal and we saved every penny we could to pay for the $12,000 IVF procedure (insurance doesn’t cover this ‘elective’ in Maine). Somehow, the days passed slowly and quickly at the same time. While each day we waited was full of longing and desperation, I also awoke every day thinking the possibility of great things to come. In March 2015, we went back to Boston IVF to finalize our IVF plan. We decided to wait until the summer when I’d be out of school and could fully commit to the process.
July 2, 2015 was my very first IVF shot. This day marked the beginning of the nearly 100 shots I would endure over the next couple of months. The first was the worst. I covered my eyes and grit my teeth as Joe counted, “1, 2, 3”. When the first one was over, I cried. I cried hard. I still don’t know if it was because I was relieved it was over, or if it was because, that day, I saw something in my husband I never knew existed, but made me love him even more. We were in this together, every step of the way. Over the next couple of weeks, I went to the doctor four times a week for ultrasounds and blood samples. Finally, it was time for the egg retrieval. I woke up that morning full of anxiety. “How many eggs will they get?”, “How much pain will I be in after?”, “Will the anesthesia make me sick?” My mind was racing. Joe rubbed my hand (too hard--like he always does when he knows I’m nervous and he’s trying to comfort me) the whole way there.
Nine eggs retrieved. Five days later, one was implanted. Two days after that, the call that none of the other embryos had survived. Next, the struggle to remain positive while the overwhelming emotion of doubt and grief washed over us. If this one embryo didn’t work, we were back at square one.
Well, it didn’t work. We'd start again right away, we decided. We met with the doctor to discuss what had gone wrong and as difficult as it was, we felt confident that round two would be "it" for us. We took one day to grieve and then promised ourselves we would have a positive outlook as we began round two.
The shots started again almost immediately and with the doses nearly doubled, I came to dread 5:00 when Joe would get home and we would trudge upstairs, syringes and vials in hand. Only a few days in, my stomach was bruised and tender to the touch. We avoided going out not only because of the emotional toll this process had taken on us, but also because it was, well, difficult to wear pants.
The next couple weeks of August were eerily reminiscent of July. I would spend many of my days alone while Joe was at work, not quite ready to face the world. I would count down the hours until he would be home and it would be time or my next shot, dreading it and wishing for it at the same time. These were lonely days filled with too many emotions to recount.
When it was time for the second egg retrieval, I was nervous and apprehensive, but during times of idleness, my mind still saw what my heart wanted so badly. Would this be it for us? Would I wait two weeks and get that call from a nurse with a voice so full of excitement I would know the results couldn't be anything but positive? The day of the second egg retrieval I awoke from anesthesia crying uncontrollably. I (vaguely) remember apologizing to the nurses surrounding my hospital bed for my sobs and they, of course, said, "It happens all the time, honey."
I found myself in the midst of those same uncontrollable sobs just ten days later. It was September 12, 2015 when we found out our second round had failed, too. Where were we going to go from here? Out of money, out of courage, out of hope.
Over two months later, we're still picking up the pieces of our lives. With so very much to be thankful for, there is still so much missing. While I wake up every single day in a beautiful, warm home, with the most wonderful, loving husband next to me, there is a piece of me missing; a piece I don't know for sure will ever be there. I look in the mirror, preparing myself for a day with twenty eight year-olds, and I wonder if I will ever have one of my own to love as much as I do the ones who I spend my days with now.
It has taken us over three years to share this story, and I'm still not sure we're ready. I worry. I worry that once people know what my life is really like, they'll look at me with sadness in their eyes and only see me for what I am missing. I worry that they'll judge me and I will, as a whole, become something less than all that I am. While this struggle is a huge part of our lives, it does not define us.
The last three years has taught me more than I may have learned in my whole life. It has taught me kindness and patience, steadfastness and courage, and it has taught me that there is nothing more powerful in this world than love and hope. We don't know where this journey will take us next, and right now, we're not even ready to find out. But, there are reasons why, after three years, we have decided to share our story: If you're going through this struggle, it can feel like one of the loneliest, most isolated times of your life. Brene Brown talks candidly about shame being one of the foremost emotions that drives our actions as humans. We need to stand together and realize that infertility, no matter the cause, is not a foundation for shame. This is our story and it needs to be heard.
As for us...we'll make it. We have each other, we have each other every step of the way (for better or for worse, remember?) We will continue this journey the same way we started it, hand in hand and with hope in our hearts.
A year later, our hearts, once full of excitement and possibility, were broken. The doctor at Boston IVF had just told us that if it hadn’t happened yet, our chances were about 3% that it would. We were determined to do whatever it took to start family and, so, the endless tests ensued. The result of weekly appointments and hundreds of dollars seemed to have landed us no closer to our dream; doctors could find nothing wrong with either one of us. “There’s no reason it hasn’t happened, they said, “It just hasn’t”.
We discussed our options and decided to try IUI. Doctors told us this procedure only had a 15-20% success rate, but we were optimistic. The daily doses of Clomid took its toll on me; the fainting and the nausea were the tolerable symptoms. “One day at a time-you can do this.” Joe would say, and he was with me every step of the way. But, $1,500 and two failed IUIs later told us our journey was far from over.
Then, we waited. We waited a whole year. We tried to let our hearts heal and we saved every penny we could to pay for the $12,000 IVF procedure (insurance doesn’t cover this ‘elective’ in Maine). Somehow, the days passed slowly and quickly at the same time. While each day we waited was full of longing and desperation, I also awoke every day thinking the possibility of great things to come. In March 2015, we went back to Boston IVF to finalize our IVF plan. We decided to wait until the summer when I’d be out of school and could fully commit to the process.
July 2, 2015 was my very first IVF shot. This day marked the beginning of the nearly 100 shots I would endure over the next couple of months. The first was the worst. I covered my eyes and grit my teeth as Joe counted, “1, 2, 3”. When the first one was over, I cried. I cried hard. I still don’t know if it was because I was relieved it was over, or if it was because, that day, I saw something in my husband I never knew existed, but made me love him even more. We were in this together, every step of the way. Over the next couple of weeks, I went to the doctor four times a week for ultrasounds and blood samples. Finally, it was time for the egg retrieval. I woke up that morning full of anxiety. “How many eggs will they get?”, “How much pain will I be in after?”, “Will the anesthesia make me sick?” My mind was racing. Joe rubbed my hand (too hard--like he always does when he knows I’m nervous and he’s trying to comfort me) the whole way there.
Well, it didn’t work. We'd start again right away, we decided. We met with the doctor to discuss what had gone wrong and as difficult as it was, we felt confident that round two would be "it" for us. We took one day to grieve and then promised ourselves we would have a positive outlook as we began round two.
The shots started again almost immediately and with the doses nearly doubled, I came to dread 5:00 when Joe would get home and we would trudge upstairs, syringes and vials in hand. Only a few days in, my stomach was bruised and tender to the touch. We avoided going out not only because of the emotional toll this process had taken on us, but also because it was, well, difficult to wear pants.
The next couple weeks of August were eerily reminiscent of July. I would spend many of my days alone while Joe was at work, not quite ready to face the world. I would count down the hours until he would be home and it would be time or my next shot, dreading it and wishing for it at the same time. These were lonely days filled with too many emotions to recount.
When it was time for the second egg retrieval, I was nervous and apprehensive, but during times of idleness, my mind still saw what my heart wanted so badly. Would this be it for us? Would I wait two weeks and get that call from a nurse with a voice so full of excitement I would know the results couldn't be anything but positive? The day of the second egg retrieval I awoke from anesthesia crying uncontrollably. I (vaguely) remember apologizing to the nurses surrounding my hospital bed for my sobs and they, of course, said, "It happens all the time, honey."
I found myself in the midst of those same uncontrollable sobs just ten days later. It was September 12, 2015 when we found out our second round had failed, too. Where were we going to go from here? Out of money, out of courage, out of hope.
Over two months later, we're still picking up the pieces of our lives. With so very much to be thankful for, there is still so much missing. While I wake up every single day in a beautiful, warm home, with the most wonderful, loving husband next to me, there is a piece of me missing; a piece I don't know for sure will ever be there. I look in the mirror, preparing myself for a day with twenty eight year-olds, and I wonder if I will ever have one of my own to love as much as I do the ones who I spend my days with now.
It has taken us over three years to share this story, and I'm still not sure we're ready. I worry. I worry that once people know what my life is really like, they'll look at me with sadness in their eyes and only see me for what I am missing. I worry that they'll judge me and I will, as a whole, become something less than all that I am. While this struggle is a huge part of our lives, it does not define us.
The last three years has taught me more than I may have learned in my whole life. It has taught me kindness and patience, steadfastness and courage, and it has taught me that there is nothing more powerful in this world than love and hope. We don't know where this journey will take us next, and right now, we're not even ready to find out. But, there are reasons why, after three years, we have decided to share our story: If you're going through this struggle, it can feel like one of the loneliest, most isolated times of your life. Brene Brown talks candidly about shame being one of the foremost emotions that drives our actions as humans. We need to stand together and realize that infertility, no matter the cause, is not a foundation for shame. This is our story and it needs to be heard.
As for us...we'll make it. We have each other, we have each other every step of the way (for better or for worse, remember?) We will continue this journey the same way we started it, hand in hand and with hope in our hearts.
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