Fertility War

I need to explain what you are about to read. There is a reason I'm bleeding and spilling my guts all over this ridiculously long post. It's not to cry, "woe is me," or trivialize the war so many couples are waging with infertility. No, no; this was mainly for me. To get out feelings I didn't think I could share, let alone write. To help myself come to terms with loss and try to find light in what was a very dark time.

So, it you're reading this and in a similar situation, I am so, so sorry. I know how it feels to yearn for a child and how it's even harder to talk about it. Hopefully, my words will ease your sense of isolation and give you someone who understands the hell you are in.

If you're not in a similar situation, you probably know someone who is or was. Be nice to them. Try to understand. Hopefully, there is a little something in this post for everyone. So, if you're interested after all this blah, blah, blah, I'm flattered. Buckle your seat belt for this roller coaster and read on.

Two and half years ago

"Beeeennnn!" I shrieked, racing down the hall toward the bedroom, waving a Clear Blue Pregnancy test triumphantly above my head. I had to have someone else read this thing, because I was sure I was just willing it to be positive. For the last few days, I had had a little inkling that something was brewing in my uterus, but the proof was hard to believe. Ben shot out of bed with a worried look and awesome bed-head and inquired why I was screaming. I waved the magic stick and he realized what all the hullabaloo was about. His face split into a big smile and we both cried hot tears of joy. I was pregnant. Me. With child. Expecting. Knocked up.

You should know life wasn't always this joyful and the tears shed prior to this were of disappointment and sadness. With two college degrees and a couple years of marriage behind us, we were feeling pretty good about trying the next adventure as parents. And try we did. Unsuccessfully; well, we had fun, but no baby. We finally decided to go get the necessary pokes and prods to find out why the egg and sperm just couldn't seem to get together. After a few tests, we were told both of us were, "okay, not perfect, but okay," and we should just "keep trying."

And try we did. For another 7 months. After which, Ben was given a medication to try, and I was told to decrease my stress, "go to my happy place," and continue peeing on very expensive ovulation sticks. Fun times.

We obediently did as we were told and, ta-da! It worked. I cannot even tell you the joy and relief I felt seeing that magic word, "pregnant" on the test. The stress of getting pregnant was over. I didn't care if this was the only child I would ever bear; I felt complete. And I felt like a mom. Even though I hadn't seen my child or even felt her move, I recognized the special spirit in that tiny little blastocyst. And I loved her (no, I didn't know the gender, but just had an epiphany it was a girl).

I called an OB and made my appointment for our first check up and an ultrasound for a few weeks away. On day one of week five, I started spending my mornings, afternoons, evenings, and twilight hours retching my guts out. Seriously, all freaking day, baby. But I was happy. I was overjoyed at the fact I was going through daily projectile vomit for our child. Sometimes, I would just stare at my belly in amazement. Luckily, I found the lovely cocktail of Sprite and saltine crackers first thing in the morning did just the trick to curb the nausea for a few hours. And I found out fruit loops aren't so bad coming back up.

We thanked the Lord for our baby every night and his grace in answering our prayers. As our appointment drew closer, I grew nervous and excited about seeing our little gummy bear baby. We started fantasizing about cribs, college funds, and finding the best priced Huggies.

The weeks finally passed and we found ourselves filling out a million forms and me sitting nearly naked on crinkly medical paper, hoping that I wasn't getting too sweaty and clammy. And can I say, those little paper covers/robes are just ridiculous? Anyway, the ultrasound tech came in and asked us the ice-breaker questions: "Is this your first? How are you feeling?"

As the picture of my uterus came onto the screen, I felt my heart drop into my stomach.  I know that's a common saying, but I really think my anatomy changed in that instant. I had seen lots of ultrasound pictures, and could tell that this one wasn't normal. My uterus looked awfully empty--no gummy bear baby to be found. Ben squeezed my hand as he saw fat tears rolling down my face.

The ultrasound tech bit her lip slightly and removed the probe, looking down at the floor. "I'm sorry," she said, "This doesn't look like a viable pregnancy. It looks like your baby stopped growing some time ago." That's all I heard. My ears started ringing, my mouth got dry, and the sweat really started running down my armpits. I could not believe what I had seen on the screen and I was confused. I knew all the signs of an impending miscarriage and hadn't seen any of them; I wasn't bleeding, no cramping, and definitely no absence of nausea. This didn't make sense.

The doctor came in a few minutes later and said in a voice as jolly as Santa's, "Bummer! You guys can try again in a few months. This happens all the time." I wanted to take that smile and shove it where the sun "don't not shine."  I know he meant well, but his overly happy attitude just brought back my waterfall of tears and I was angry that my baby wasn't being given a second thought. As a nurse, I know how easy it is to become callous and to shut your heart to grief you see everyday, but I could not believe how easy this information was to digest for everyone but us.

I thought to myself, "Yeah, this may happen 'all the time' to you, but not me. This revelation has shattered my life as I know it, so shut the hell up about 'trying again' and the statistics of loss." I didn't want another baby; I wanted the one that was in me. The one who I'd never seen, but the one who's mother I felt I was already.

As if the news of an impending miscarriage wasn't enough, I had to drop my drawers for a Rhogham shot, which is easily the thickness of peanut butter. I closed my eyes and cried silently as the 20 guage entered my skin.  I almost didn't hear the nurse try to lighten the mood by saying, "Oh, dear, you're so skinny, there's just nothing to pinch." Thanks, lady; I have been vomiting everything that enters my mouth for the past five weeks. Great for weight loss--you should definitely give it a try.

As I adjusted my pants, I started to try and put the pieces together and come up with a logical reason for this. There had to be one; I'm a nurse and science is a comfort that always makes sense. I had been terribly sick with a fever of 103 early in week four. Maybe that did it. I had to be on an antibiotic right before I got pregnant. Maybe that did it. I couldn't keep anything down for the past 5 weeks and had lost weight. Maybe that did it. The blame on myself kept coming so easily, I was sure my baby didn't live because of me.

The doctor gave us the option to have the "remnants" of the pregnancy taken out with a d&c, or let nature takes its coarse. We were told there was like a 0.2% chance that everything was okay, so I was not about to let him scrape out my uterus. He told me the miscarriage would probably happen in a few days on it's own. Maybe this would turn out okay; I decided I would just keep praying and keep my legs squeezed shut.

We got a lot of sad looks when we walked out of the exam room, but apparently no one told the secretary. She asked us if we wanted to pay for our hospital delivery now or make payments. She probably felt pretty stupid as I, again, started to cry and mumbled something like, umm...no baby...I'll call ya.

Ben and I got on a plane to Italy the next day. I don't like to say we were running away from this whole thing, but I definitely wanted to.  I was grateful to get away and have the chance to focus on something, anything else but what was about to happen. And I got to eat a lot of gelato, so that helped. I waited for weeks for the cramping and cringed every time I used the bathroom and peered for blood. Nothing.

Then weeks later, in Venice, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, the cramping started. It wasn't bad a first, just a few twinges here and there. By the evening, I had passed some baseball clots and felt it was nearly over. After all, the doctor had said only "four to six hours of moderate cramping, similar to a period." Ben gave me a wonderful blessing of comfort and we went to bed.

I woke up in tears at two in the morning in a river of blood and I felt like I was in full blown labor. The cramps were blinding and my whole body shook from pain. I hunched over and stumbled to the bathroom and found clots and tissue the size of dinner plates emerging from me. (Sorry if this is too much info and you're now nauseated. You can just skip ahead if needed).

The fact that I may be hemorrhaging crossed my mind--my vision felt blurry and my whole body was clammy.  I had no idea how to access healthcare in a foreign country or if it was even a possibility. I did know that I could pray for help; plead that I wouldn't bleed to death in that hotel bathroom. So I did.

I fantasized about sitting in a warm bath; that is where I go to think or relax and I would have given anything for one. Our hotel, however, only had a shower. I sat on the cold tiled floor, hung my head, and let the hot water run over me, leaving angry red, bloody streaks on the white tile. (Red used to be my favorite color). I stayed there for hours and prayed for relief. What I wouldn't have given for a freaking Tylenol.

My body gave into sleep on the shower floor and I woke up when the water turned cold. I stood up only to have more red tissue escape my body and leave me feeling weak. I couldn't imagine where all this blood was coming from and I cursed the doctor for giving me the idea that this would be easy. Four to six hours of cramping, my eye. This is no regular period, mister inconsiderate, insensitive-doctor-pig. This is a period on steroids. From Hell.

I cleaned myself up the best I could and hobbled out to the bed. I woke Ben and asked for another blessing. I felt more calm and in less pain after the blessing. Ben held me close and stroked my wet, stringy hair as I sobbed puddles of tears on our pillows.

A few hours later, the hell started again. This time, I was determined to take it like a man, well, uh, so to speak. I gave my small pep talks in the mirror between what can only be described as contractions, and forced myself walk the halls of the hotel with a towel under my robe. I even poured myself a bowel of cereal and told myself this was going to be over soon. Well, it was soon that I found myself on the shower floor again with the water running down my back. My only consolation was the bleeding seemed to be slowing and the clots getting a little smaller. I thanked the Lord the bleeding was relenting.

I made my way back to bed and found my way into Ben's arms. He told me he was sorry and he was proud at how strong I was. I tried to believe him, but felt so defenseless in the war waging on my body and mind. Man, I would have seriously killed a kitten for a Tylenol.

A whopping 26 hours after the first twinges and bleeding, I could finally see clearly and stand up straight. I was still in shock about what had happened, but was easily distracted by the beauty we found in Italy. We finished our trip and made the treck back home to Idaho and normal life. As we sailed over the ocean, I felt a hole in heart that ached for my baby. I felt awful that I had to leave my baby in Italy and even more awful to have to go back to a life without the prospect of seeing her.

The next few weeks went by and I ate my weight in Ben and Jerry's ice cream and stayed in my pajamas for more hours of the day than real clothes. I did a lot of sleeping when I should have been praying. My mind was bombarded daily with those awful, guilt ridden feelings that it was my fault; that I could have done something or not done something to make the outcome different.

To make things worse, we were starting to be the target of many nosy and painful questions: When are you guys going to have a baby?? It's a commandment, you know. It is high time you two think of starting a family. Every reminder that we weren't having kids really hurt.

It was equally hard to see others not appreciate, or worse, not want their little angels. We had a woman, who with her arms full of beautiful babies, had the nerve to say, "Enjoy your empty arms, you two, someday you'll have to deal with kids." If given the chance, I would have stolen her baby with the crumbs all over his face who had his pants on backwards. If it weren't a felony.

I felt a little lost and out of place as my facebook feed was flooded daily with news of pregnancies and chubby faces of new arrivals. Everyone and their dog seemed to be having babies. It seemed like we were the only ones struggling with fertility; the only ones who couldn't just wash our undies together and get pregnant. Part of me wanted to be happy for these lucky people, but a bigger part of me wanted to kick them in their perfectly functioning reproductive parts. And I felt awful about it. I wished I could stop feeling so sad all the time and go back to being me.

The transformation back to a happier, less teary version of myself slowly started to appear a few months later. It started by giving myself little "assignments," if you will, to get myself moving. One day I would say, You have to take a shower, Whit, the next, You really need to wash a few dishes today, followed by, Get yourself dressed, girl, you got this. 

After much soul searching, pleading prayers, and a facebook fast, I started wearing real people clothes and doing my hair in something other than a pony tail. I remember a pivotal moment as I kneeled by my bed, trying to find the words to pray. I couldn't speak, but somehow, I knew He understood what I wanted to say and what I needed to feel. I felt peace and a calm that I yearned for for months. I also had the clear realization that the loss of my baby wasn't my fault--I finally understood that the Lord has a timing for everything and it just wasn't time. And that gave me hope. Maybe this pregnancy was the Lord's way of letting us know we would have children, just not yet.

 Four months ago

Since our miscarriage, we had kept trying off and on to get pregnant. To no avail. We tried multiple natural supplements, "witch" doctors, timed ovulation, and I haven't gotten up to pee after sex for years. Every month when mother nature showed her ugly face, I felt like I had lost yet another battle in the war of fertility. We have paid hundreds in co-pays to be told we "theoretically should be having children." So, a few months ago we decided to get out the big guns and see a Reproductive Endocrinologist, Dr. Shawn Gurtcheff.

Finally. Someone who listened to us and took us seriously. We chatted about our history and looked over the many tests and labs we've had over the years. After just a few minutes, she suggested a plan individualized for issues we have never had addressed. What other doctors had described as "sluggish swimmers" and "inflamed ovary," Dr. Gurtcheff diagnosed with low motility and a cystic ovary.  It was refreshing to have someone be honest with us; to tell us the hard truth that no one else had. We had some problems. At least there are some answers to why we weren't getting pregnant on our own.

Over the next week I had multiple ultrasound probes up in my business as we prepared for Intrauterine Insemination (yes, just like they do for cows and french bulldogs). Basically, due to the motility issues and the bum ovary, sticking the swimmers right in the uterus and bypassing the obstacle of the cervix was going to be our best bet. We watched the ultrasound screen apprehensively with each visit, hoping the egg was growing like it should.

If the constant ultrasound weren't enough, the aspect of the expense of the whole thing was always in the back of my mind. Each probe up my ya-hoo was a couple hundred bucks and due to the issue of timing the insemination perfectly, the tab was really racking up (for those of you who don't know, most insurances suck when it comes to infertility...sure, they'll pay to fix your heart or your leg, but not your bum ovary).

Well, the time came when the egg ripened and I got to give myself an HCG shot to drop the egg. I'm a nurse and pride myself in delivering a pretty painless shot, but that sucker hurt. That little 30 gauge needle definitely left its mark. The next day, we went in for the procedure. I was nervous and excited about the prospect of getting pregnant; a little less excited that it would be at a doctor's office, but still.

I was put on Progerstone suppositories (now if that's not awful, I don't know what is) after the insemination and we waited for our two week follow up blood work. As the appointment grew closer, I felt twinges and cramps I was all too used to that signaled a no-go on the baby implantation.  I prayed that imsemination would just work the first time and we could finally be parents. But, mother nature showed her stupid face as usual, right on time. I started to cry and then chided myself for mourning something I never had. Why does every period feel like a miscarriage? Another chance lost at having a baby?? I wasn't sure.

So, instead of having my blood tested for pregnancy hormone, I got to have...wait for it. Another ultrasound. We questioned what we could do to be more agressive this time and I was put on the medicinal roller coaster called Clomid. This stuff not only brings out the worst in a woman's emotions, but increases the number of eggs that are ovulated, and hopefully, the number of babies. As promised by the small print on the bottle, I was emotional, experienced cramping, and thoughts of anger followed by crying. I reasoned with myself that this would be worth it and choked down my pills obediently.

We went for a follicle check ultrasound and saw only one egg...so much for that damn Clomid. I went in for blood work and waited anxiously at work for the call. Over the last two weeks I hadn't thought much about being pregnant, but that day, I couldn't get the thought out of my mind. I was pretty sure I would be a mess emotionally whatever the result was.

The sweet little receptionist called and told me that our second attempt was  "unsuccessful." And that's how I felt; like a complete failure. I thanked her for the call and hung up. I felt like I had been slapped in the face once again by that ugly infertility monster I had grown to despise so deeply.

A very big part of me wanted to give up, throw in the towel, and just be done with this. I was so tired of the pokes, prods, stress, and emotional havoc I was going through to have nothing come of it. I have always been able to work hard to achieve what I want, but there was absolutely nothing I could do better or different to change the outcome.

But, there was a tiny, minuscule part that felt like we needed to keep doing treatments. And I hated that part of myself. I told that part, Shut up, you optimist. This will never happen, so save some time, money, and tears and just quit. But that small part wouldn't listen to the bigger, more logical part of me.  After some encouragement from Ben and many hours on my knees, we decided to try again. Once more and then, we reasoned, we had done our part with this and we would let the Lord decide what was next.

About a month ago

At this point, I cried when I entered the fertility center. Don't get me wrong, everyone was nice enough, but I just hated it there. My hope and dignity had died there. We went in for a baseline ultrasound and talked about our options. They upped my awful Clomid and I started injections to try to make more eggs. More eggs equals more babies. Between the cost of the pills and the shots, I felt like I should be ingesting pure gold.

Thanks to the Clomid and the Bravelle injections, my ovaries finally started to get the message we wanted to run an easter egg factory (that's what Ben calls me now). The ultrasound showed one mature egg, two medium eggs, and one small egg. We were elated. Not necessarily at the prospect of having multiples, but that we had more than one chance to make this happen. Our joy was crushed when I was told, thanks to the damn Clomid, that the lining of my uterus wasn't thick enough--a common side effect of Clomid. So, I started inserting blue Estrogen pills up in there to thicken up for the last insemination. Meanwhile, my emotions were on a very real roller coaster and I was leaking blue stuff from unnatural places (sorry, probably too much info).

The third insemination went like all the rest. Honestly, if I had a mirror and longer arms, I could have done it myself. We paid another five hundred bucks before we left and started the two week countdown.  I felt more anxious this go around, mainly because after round three, "our situation would be re-evaluated." In people terms, that means, "three strikes, you're out. Thanks for playing, suckers."

Now, I know they wouldn't say that, but if this didn't work, we would have to decide how far we are willing to go in the quest for a baby. Would we do more inseminations?? IVF?? As we pondered the possibilities, we didn't feel great about any of them. We were tired. And I wanted a break. So, we decided this was it; if it worked, fantastic! If not, what else is new? We can deal with the monthly disappointment a lot easier when we aren't doing fertility treatments and paying up the wa-zoo for them.    Who knows? Give us a few months and we may be ready to try this again. But for now, we are emotionally exhausted and heartbroken, and I can't do this anymore.

Today

The results are in. Negative...once again.
It's okay. I know we will have kids someday. I don't know exactly how they will come into our lives, but we will be ready and waiting for them. I found this song today and I don't think it was a coincidence.  These words saved me today; maybe they can do something for you too. And it doesn't hurt that the music is fan-freakin-tastic.

It's the waiting that drives you mad
It's a story you can't control
It's the wondering that breaks you down
But I'm holding on
But I'm holding on

I'll be dreaming of what you might be
Even though it might sound crazy
I'll be ready when you get here
I'll be waiting here for you baby
Even though it might sound crazy
I'll be ready when you get here

So, that's our story. A little sad, but true. It feels good to share it and put into words the rainbow of emotions we have had. Hopefully, one day we can look back on this with fondness and recognize the mercy and kindness of the Lord and His timing. We'll wait and try to be ready for that day. I just hope it comes soon.