L’s Story: An IVF Journey

I was waiting for the right guy. I was waiting to get married. I got married for the first time at 37. We thought we were being aggressive by waiting only a few months before trying to have a baby. Can I have those few months back?

A year passed with systematic monitoring of basal temperature, careful not to move from bed before I got my temperature every morning. I charted my cervical mucus and tried to discern what “sticky egg white” meant. We timed intercourse with ovulation kits, trying to get in the mood every time it was time for our “business sex.” I bought sexy lingerie. We dimmed lights.

I was obsessed with pregnancy.

Every month when my menstrual cycle would start; I’d see blood and cry.  I went to four ob/gyns. Three tested me for everything. The tested my hormone levels at the wrong point in my cycle. They told me to just keep trying. They discounted my complaints that my menstrual cycle was lasting too long. I soldiered through their advice. I lost weight for them; I gained weight for them. Did they not read the pamphlet on “Aging and Infertility in Women.” The fourth ob/gyn that I saw didn’t even exam me. For my $89, ten minute session, I got the advice I wish I had been given a year prior, “Go to a fertility specialist.  You can’t wait. Here is a list of who I recommend.”

Advice was everywhere, “relax or you won’t get pregnant” or “just adopt and you will magically get pregnant because you won’t be stressed.”

I started going to a fertility clinic a month after we bought a house (two weeks after the last doctor had said, “you don’t have time.”) I had great insurance, but the fertility clinic required payment upfront. Thousands of dollars went by. I opened a credit card with a $15,000 limit and charged every dime of it on medical bills. Why’d I buy a house? I wanted life to go on. I wanted something to move forward.

Blood tests, vaginal ultrasounds, Clomid, more Clomid, IUI (repeat three times), shots, vitamins, powders…I was their experiment. What would you do for a baby?

I was emotional. I went on antidepressants, then off of them, then wondered about going back on them. My parents kept telling me, “just adopt.”  They wanted this to end. I would be happy to adopt after I grieve the fact that I am infertile. Did anyone see that missing step?  I was torture on everyone around me. I’m good at sharing.

In January of this year, I started the IVF process. My husband gave me three shots a day for twelve days. Every needle that went in, I’d close my eyes and try to imagine a baby’s face, but I had little energy left to hope. I could never picture a baby’s face. The medication made me constipated. I didn’t have a bowel movement in 12 days and I was worried. The nurses told me to increase my fiber and take a stool softener. I took three a day and was eating 35 grams of fiber per day. I had incredible pain from gas and bloating. The doctors said no laxatives and no straining. I wanted to jump out of my body and run away from it.

There was no running away from the fact I’d be forty years old this year. I had to keep going, pain or no pain.

After the 12 days of shots, they retrieved 10 eggs, 7 which they thought were mature enough to fertilize. That number quickly dropped to five eggs in a matter of hours. I mourned the loss of my two eggs. Out of the remaining five eggs, three were the ideal maturity level at the point of retrieval. The same week of the egg retrieval they transferred three embryos to me, the other two they would keep growing. They brought the three of them into the room in a baby incubator. We could see them on the monitor; they looked just like the textbook pictures in seventh grade education class that I never understood. My husband cried and was instantly protective of each one.

Out of the two remaining eggs that were fertilized, one lived to be frozen for another transfer if I decided to do a second IVF. One. One lonely one.

No one wanted to give me a percentage of what my chance at pregnancy would be with the transfer of three embryos.  The nurses kept referring to the doctor and finally on the day of transfer the doctor told me. 50% Wow. Should I be excited or disappointed by that number?

About two weeks after the transfer, I am sobbing. I go into the doctor to take my blood test to check for pregnancy. I am stressed. Two years and $18,000 later, will it be worth it?

The nurse calls and tells me I’m pregnant. I just slump to the floor crying. I can’t understand how I feel. I’m exhausted. It’s over. The fight is over. I broke into a million pieces. Shock.

Today I am four months pregnant. I am having twins. I am sick all the time. But did I really expect the “pregnancy gods” to be fair and make this part easy?

My husband has a picture of his mom at her fortieth birthday party. She has a big smile on her face and is pointing to the lettering on her black T-shirt. In big white letters it says, “I’d rather be forty, then pregnant.”

I get it. Women are insanely strong. They don’t always share it, but if you are looking for a hand, reach out to a woman, she’ll hold you up until you can walk on your own. You are not alone. Guaranteed.