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.