THE HURRICANE

For the past several weeks, I’ve felt like I’ve been caught in a hurricane — winds blowing at 100 miles an hour, floods crashing into what I thought were safe places, Philip and me precariously afloat on some piece of broken door that drifted by. Then the rain lets up for a moment, and we bank up against a hill, secure and relieved. But then the winds change direction, and again we’re pelted with stinging rain and sent spilling back into the roiling water.

Finally, over the last few days, calm has returned. The sun is shining, we’ve picked up the scattered pieces, and we’re taking solace in the few precious belongings that were saved.

The stimulation process had gone smoothly enough. Ever the fretter, I had worried that the meds would turn me crazy, or that we’d miss an injection or forget some appointment and ruin the cycle. But everything went fine. Philip played the role of nurse like an all-star, and I didn’t experience any concerning side effects from the drugs. It was a lot to remember, but we took it one day at a time and managed to stay sane.

In the midst of the stimming, there were many impossible decisions to be made. Fresh or frozen transfer? ICSE some or all? Genetic testing or no? Transfer one or two? What to do with potential leftover embryos in the case of divorce or death? What credit card to use to pay such a monumental bill? It was a lot to think and pray (and argue) about.

I was also under a major deadline at work. There was nothing to do about the insistent stress but work hard and try not to fall behind. On the deadline day, Philip and I went in to our clinic for a pre-op appointment and had to see a different RE within the practice, who sent us into a tailspin of doubt over one of the decisions we had made. I spent the night re-agonizing over the choice with my parents on the phone, ultimately deciding to stick to our original course.

The day of the retrieval fell promptly on the day after the deadline. It went smoothly, and initial numbers left us ecstatic.

I felt physically awful. I had abdominal pain and was tired and foggy. I started running a fever and felt achy all over. A stabbing, pinching pain developed in my right shoulder. I missed an extra day of work and didn’t feel up to resuming my exercise routines. But I took comfort in our numbers — lots of eggs, lots of embryos. These are the results everyone dreams of.

Three days in, and things were holding steady. We told our parents; everyone was rejoicing.

But five days in, everything fell apart. Eighty percent of our embryos deteriorated. The fate of the remaining handful was still uncertain. I got the message before work on a Friday, sitting in my bathroom, and I wept. Philip sat beside me silently, passing me tissues.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. Still reeling from Friday’s news, we rallied to spend the day with Philip’s family. I shielded myself from potential triggers on such a sensitive day — no Facebook, no TV. I had done my shopping weeks ahead and was prepared to focus on Philip’s mom and grandma.

But bam — a piece of wind-driven shrapnel struck us out of nowhere. A family member (who knows our situation) jubilantly surprised everyone with a demonstrative announcement of their first pregnancy, just a year into their marriage, and the news knocked the wind out of our lungs. We drove the long way home, winding through lonely country roads, and more tears streamed down my face.

Monday morning brought another doctor’s appointment, and I cried again, seeing the beautiful numbers crumble on the computer screen. Our RE was grave, apologetic, dejected. We tried to follow along in our grief, hearing snippets like “donor sperm or eggs,” “next IVF cycle,” “one of only three couples” in her career to ever see such a dramatic decline.

For the next two days, as I awaited the news on the final fate of our frozen possibilities, I could barely eat. I felt like I was on the verge of vomiting. The tips of my fingers were numb. I desperately searched for something to put my hope in, grasping awkwardly for God — my hope had been in numbers, but the numbers were failing me.

Finally the call came: There was going to be a transfer in our future! The number of embryos we had sounded impossibly small after our initial reports, but it wasn’t zero, so I melted with relief and welled with gratitude.

Still, there was barely time to relax. The crunch was on to plan a bridal shower for my sister, happening in just two short weeks, so I threw myself into crafts and online shopping and swirls of planning emails. It went off like gangbusters.

Now, on the other side of the shower, the retrieval, the big work deadline, I finally can exhale. We decided to take the month off from everything fertility-related, and I feel like me again. I can run; I can have a glass of wine; I can make plans. I can be lighthearted. I’m not scared or sad or overwhelmed.

Not being in treatment reminds me of how good I feel when I’m not in treatment —  how much I loathe the appointments, the injections, the blood draws and vaginal ultrasounds. The bleak waiting room and banal small talk with the carousel of staff members at my clinic. The waiting on pins and needles for the nurse’s phone call. The rise of hope and the crash of disappointment. Filling out my calendar with estimated treatment dates and having to edit them, shift them, and edit them again based on ever-changing, fickle information. I’m half a person when I’m in treatment — this inert, depressed, anxiety-flushed shell of myself. I hate it.

Inevitably my mind floats to what we’ll do if these transfers fail. Others in my life go there immediately as well. I can’t even count how many people have brought up adoption to me. I told Philip I would neck-punch the next person who approached the subject, but then it was my mother, so I didn’t follow through.

The suggestion of adoption touches some deep nerve for me. For one, it implies that this IVF cycle is already over, when it’s not. It also invalidates all of the other options available to us, not the least of which is another IVF attempt, in addition to surrogates and donors — and simply choosing to live child-free. It’s also not the same thing as conceiving and carrying our own child; it’s not some one-for-one replacement for such an innate desire. Lastly, it belies how HARD adoption is. I know five women personally who are now parents because of IVF, while I know two couples who have gone through failed adoptions. Adoption is uncertain, expensive and often drawn out for years. It’s not some simple solution.

It’s also not something I’ve ever deeply desired or felt particularly called to.

That said, I don’t know how I would feel if these treatments fail. Maybe adoption will become an option for us, or maybe we’ll just be ready to let it all go — to live our lives, travel, and love on each other and our cats, not constantly burdened by this life-consuming and heartbreaking yolk of attempting to build a family.

I try not to think about it. For now, there’s still hope in this current IVF cycle, so I’m going to cling to that. And I’m just going to try to be a regular human for a few weeks, basking in the calm before another storm.