BITTERSWEET AT BEST

It was Mother’s Day 2014; we were almost four years into our infertility journey. Just days before, we had received the blow that only three of the 13 embryos from our first egg retrieval had survived to blast. We were still waiting for the results of the PGS testing, and I was terrified that none would turn out to be genetically viable. I had successfully avoided the minefield of social media all day, and we were with my husband’s family, to celebrate my mother- and grandmother-in-law.

All of a sudden, my sister-in-law disappeared into a bedroom at Grandma’s condo and returned with a giant box. It all unfolded in slow motion—my mother-in-law opening the box, and a blue balloon floating out, with a baby sock tied to the end. I realized, like a camera viewfinder coming into focus, that I was witnessing a grandiose surprise pregnancy announcement, in person, on Mother’s Day, in what was the rawest and bitterest period of our entire infertility experience.

Fast forward four years, and I am a mother now to an amazing three-year-old daughter, but Mother’s Day tends to feel more like the anniversary of that balloon-in-a-box moment four years ago than the celebration of me that it is meant to be. The agony I went through every Mother’s Day for four years didn’t just disappear when I finally got my two lines. The day is bittersweet now, at best, and I still mostly dread it.

My husband, for his part, does an incredible job of honoring me. This year, I got flowers and a card and a massage and an elaborate breakfast. Still, I struggle to accept the outpouring of love. What about all the women still waiting for their chance to be a mom? What about the women who will never get that chance? What about single moms who don’t have a husband to orchestrate the celebration? What about all the other people who struggle with this day, for one reason or another?

Not to sound righteous, but I truly feel that my daughter is all the reward I need. Plus, people celebrate me on my birthday, something everyone gets. I’ve never been crazy about exclusive holidays—in college, I wrote an editorial for the school paper about how shitty Valentine’s Day is.

Then there’s the pressure of celebrating all the moms—every year, I buy four cards for our moms and grandmas, and my husband has to do double-duty of honoring both me and his mom—despite how complicated the mother-child relationship can be. And of course, there’s guilt over the fact that I haven’t been physically with my mom on Mother’s Day in probably two decades.

And, lastly, there’s secondary infertility, an aching reminder that although I’m a mom, I don’t get to blithely and easily grow my family like all the smiling friends on Facebook, showing off how very “blessed” they are with their big broods. I am a mother of one, but my family doesn’t feel complete, and quite possibly never will. My eggs are scrambled; happy Mother’s Day to me.

This year, on the evening of Mother’s Day, Elin and I went to a performance of Disney on Ice, an event that just happened to fall on the holiday. We dressed up and watched with delight as the princesses skated around in their beautiful dresses. Elin had no idea that it was Mother’s Day as she sat in my lap and buried her face in my neck during the scary parts. In the dark, I didn’t have to force a smile at a happy family or cringe as a stranger wished me happy Mother’s Day just because I’m female. I didn’t have to graciously accept gifts I feel ambivalent about receiving or give gifts because the calendar said so. I didn’t have to think about my empty womb because my arms were full of this vibrant three-year-old life. And it was everything.

IT'S JUST MONEY

On June 22, 2017, Philip and I transferred the one frozen embryo that we had in storage. It did not implant. We got the results while traveling to visit my parents in Illinois. I cried, early in the morning, in what used to be my sister’s bed. I felt like it was over. We had never planned on doing more than one round of IVF. It’s hard to say exactly how much we spent on that round back in 2014, probably close to $20,000. And we got Elin out of it, so it turned out to be the best money we ever spent. Then there was that “leftover” genetically viable embryo, a female, and it sat in a freezer for two years while I pictured myself as the mother of two girls.

The day we transferred the embryo that would become Elin, we planted two pink rose bushes in the backyard. The one bush flourished; the other always looked on the verge of extinction. The week we got our results for the second embryo transfer, one single rosebud bloomed. Then the bush died altogether.

Over. It was over over over. As much as I longed for another child, I felt the deep, desperate ache of defeat.

A few months went by, and I just couldn’t let it go. Another $20K seemed like a fortune to spend, but we had invested that much in the attempt to have one kid; I felt like we owed it to our potential second kid to give him or her the same chance at existing. I went back to my fertility doctor and flirted with the idea of another round of IVF. She was eager, optimistic. We would pump up my medication doses—get more eggs, more embryos. We would play the numbers game and win.

In December, we took the leap into another round. One day, I charged over $9,000 to my credit card in one swipe. The cycle was textbook. I responded well to the medications; at one appointment, the sonographer measured more than 30 follicles. The retrieval took place on December 12, 2017, just in time for the end of the year and another trip to Illinois for the holidays. They got 28 eggs—five more than the first time. Five days later we got the amazing news: Five embryos had survived—two more than the first round! Surely if we got two out of three genetically viable embryos the first time, at least one would be normal this time—or maybe more!

Wrong. On December 30, a doctor from the clinic called to tell us that all five embryos were genetically abnormal; there was nothing to transfer. He was very sorry. We were on the 408, driving home from our nephew’s third birthday party. The wind left my body; I couldn’t breathe. It was brilliantly sunny, but my vision went black; I felt like I was falling, grasping for anything to hang on to, but there was nothing. No next step. No hope.

2018 came. Philip’s company started a new insurance plan, one that had even less fertility coverage than before. I asked Dr. Google what to do. I meditated. I cried out to God, out loud. I got a psychic reading. I felt enormous pressure to throw in the towel. I had one incredible, perfect child. I should just enjoy what I had and be thankful. I shouldn’t put our family through more stress, heartache, and financial strain. I should live my life, give away the baby stuff in the closet, burn the three-ring binders full of IVF documents, get on the pill, book some plane tickets.

But every time I thought about doing that, my chest squeezed tight. That same desperate, gasping sensation. The soul’s inward “Noooooooooooooo!” Maybe it’s the feeling others get when someone they love dies. They don’t want to accept it; they want to change the situation, rewind, start over, even though it’s impossible.

I don’t know; I’ve never gone through a loss like that. My loss is quieter, more subtle, private. It comes every month, month after month, when I see the faint blood on the toilet paper. There’s no five-step process to grieve. There’s no moving on. There’s always a tiny bit of possible, just enough to keep you hooked. There’s the foolish hope that creeps back, against my will, that by some miracle we’ll conceive on our own, or that a great sign will fall from heaven that another round of IVF is our golden ticket, so go forth and multiply.

I tell myself other people have it worse, have harder struggles. I should just focus on my blessings and be thankful for what I have. But they say infertility is as stressful as cancer. I don’t know; I’ve never had cancer. I do know infertility is fucking stressful.

It’s trying to control something that is desperately out of your control.

It’s feeling sad and jealous over other families’ greatest joys.

It’s isolation and bitterness and obsession.

It’s blood draws and shots and more shots and dropping your full-to-bursting sharps container off at the fire station again and being in a room full of people while a lubed-up wand is all up in your vag.

It’s flushing away piles of money that could have been college tuition or a pool or a new kitchen.

It’s saying no to that travel opportunity, and that one, and that one, because those places have zika, and I’m trying to get pregnant, even though I only have about a 20 percent chance of succeeding.

It’s arguing with your husband because there is no clear-cut way forward and nowhere else to direct your frustration.

Secondary infertility is not being able to avoid the kid stuff like you did in the past; it’s seeing how amazing your kid is and knowing what’s possible; it’s not being able to give her a sibling; it’s having a mountain of sentimental baby and toddler treasures that just keeps growing, and you’re running out of room for it all, and it pains you to consider getting rid of it, but holding onto it hurts too and is actually starting to feel a bit obscene.

It’s entering year seven of this bullshit, and you can barely remember what it’s like to not feel like this crazy, depressed, limbo-living alien.

So what do you do? You find another clinic, a new one that just opened in December. It’s way the hell up in Lake Mary, and the doctor just wants to try the same protocol again, and cross our fingers for a different outcome. Bad cycles just happen sometimes, he says. His embryology lab is better. His network has higher success rates.

Bottom line: He’s just energized to try to solve our case, because he hasn’t had to sit on the other end of the phone line while I sob and struggle to speak. And he needs new patients; his clinic just opened in December.

It will cost something like $25,000 this time, actually more. Let’s not count the bill for the initial consult, or the bloodwork, or the anesthesiology, which aren’t listed in the package price. I cry at the mere thought of another failure—the most likely outcome by far—another colossal waste of money, of ending up right back here, with no second child, with all hope destroyed, with $25,000 less in the bank.

But I just can’t let it go, and I tell myself, if it works, it will be the best money we ever spent.