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.

IF YOU WEREN'T WITH HER

... here is what you said:

1. It's excusable for a man, even the president, to say things like, "Grab them by the pussy," and "I did try and fuck her. She was married."
2. It's excusable for a man, even the president, to mock women's periods and publicly call women unattractive, ugly, nasty, a piece of ass, fat pigs, dogs, slobs and disgusting animals.
3. It's excusable for a person, even the president, to mock veterans and disabled people.
4. It's excusable for a man, even the president, to shamelessly walk in on a group of teenage girls in their underwear.
5. Twelve accusations of sexual assault are nothing to be concerned about.
6. It's excusable for a person, even the president, to be on his third marriage, even though God himself said he hates divorce.
7. It's excusable for a person, even the president, to classify all Mexican immigrants as drug dealers, criminals and rapists.
8. Keeping out immigrants and refugees is a good idea, even though the Bible is full of immigrant/refugee heroes, including Jesus.
9. Global warming isn't the threat that 97 percent of scientists warn that it is, citing impending droughts, stronger hurricanes, decreased water availability, and flooding that will endanger infrastructure, agriculture, fisheries and ecosystems.
10. Character is really just "personality," and it doesn't matter for a leader.
11. Trump will be a champion for the "unborn," even though in the past, he claimed to be "very pro-choice."
12. There doesn't need to be tighter gun control, even though the U.S. leads the world in mass shootings and gun deaths, and there were 64 school shootings in 2015 alone.
13. Marriage equality should be opposed, even though this nation was founded on religious freedom and the truth that all people are created equal and are endowed by God with the right to pursue happiness.
14. Paid family leave, child care, and equal pay for women do not matter.
15. Girls and women can be anything they want to be, except they can't.

NEW PASSPORT

I was renewing my passport the other day when I had to make a decision: Should I select the standard 28-page booklet, or go all in and order the 52-pager?

I had spent the last decade as a travel writer and editor and had filled my previous 28-page passport with stamps from all over the world: 27 countries on five continents. But now I had lost my job, to my great distress, and had no upcoming trips on the calendar. With no clear professional prospects and my identity in a state of ambivalence, I was planning to care for my 18-month-old daughter at least part-time, if not full-time, which wouldn’t leave a lot of room for world travels. Watching with a degree of self-pity as my former colleagues continued to share their jet-setting exploits on social media, I thought, in Eeyore voice, I had better get the smaller passport.

But, as thoughts occasionally do, my reverie began to wander into more positive territory. Passports are valid for 10 years, and a lot can happen in a decade. I thought back to 27-year-old Erika, applying for a new passport with her married name, mostly broken in by that point, like a pair of new jeans after a few washes. She had just started a job as associate editor of Destination Weddings & Honeymoons magazine and had the passport application expedited in anticipation of the globetrotting to come. She never dreamed she would land this job, let alone go on to become editorial director of the magazine and three others.

She also didn’t know she would try to start a family, only to keep running into roadblock after crushing roadblock for four years until finally, she would hold the phone, trembling, as the nurse announced that the IVF had worked.

She didn’t know how much you could love a tiny human, despite sleeplessness and endless demands, how she would rush to lift the baby out of the crib and feel her weight and smell the top of her head, how this child would be so much more amazing than anything she had imagined during the dark night of infertility, how each tiny achievement—a roll, a step, a word—would feel deserving of an Academy Award, would be infinitely more riveting than the most radiant island sunset.

And she didn’t know how conflicted she would feel day after day, month after month, as her daughter grew and blossomed while she struggled to keep all of the plates spinning—work and family and household and friends—except the one plate that was crucial to the success of all the rest: herself and her own sense of wellness and peace.

So what will the next 10 years bring? What new gifts, what losses, what struggles, what serendipities? What will happen with my career, my family? Where will I fail? Where will I succeed? What kind of person will Elin turn out to be—what will drive her and bring her joy? What kind of person will I turn out to be?

There’s no way to know. We’re working on some plans, for sure. But the outcomes are beyond our control. And, as my dad always says, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

Is it likely that I’ll travel to foreign countries much in the next couple of years? No. But beyond that … it’s possible. Anything is possible. It doesn’t cost extra to choose the 52-page book, and there’s no penalty for not filling the pages. But they’re there, in case you need them, if life happens to roll in that direction—of wanderlust, of discovery. Fifty-two blank pages of possibility, waiting for the next decade to be written.

I’ll let you guess which option I chose.

WHY I WENT THROUGH INFERTILITY

Why did I go through infertility? It’s a question I’ve asked myself innumerable times. In the almost four years we spent trying to conceive, I cried in a lot of bathrooms, I lost friends, my marriage and faith were put to the test. So, why? Why did I have to go through all of that?

In the beginning, I thought I was going to be some kind of voice for the disease of infertility. A veritable light bulb turned on over my head the day I thought of blogging about it, legitimately believing this was a new and genius idea.

Turns out there are lots of infertility bloggers, and there have been for quite some time. The well-known infertility blogger Stirrup Queens maintains a blog roll listing some 3,196 blogs on the subject (and no, mine isn’t one of them). There are infertility bloggers who have done it longer, who do it better, who have done more research and advocacy, who are much more open about their journeys, and who are more committed to keeping their blogs updated regularly.

No doubt I have my little audience, both online and in person, and my story is important, as all infertility stories are. But I never had the total transparency, self-discipline or big-picture thinking to make my blog stand out and really make a difference. Nor did I ever fully “come out” on social media, participate in any awareness walks or facilitate a support group. The most I did was apply to be a contributor to a widely read infertility blog, and I never even got a response.

For the most part, I obsessed in my own head about my misery and tortured a small group of intimate friends with the details of the rise/crash-and-burn of hope I endured month after month.

Before I finally got pregnant, I also liked to believe that if I ever did conceive, I would be a better parent because of my experience of infertility. The thinking goes something like this: Because I waited so long for the parenting experience, I will be more grateful, present, patient, _____________, _____________ — you get the idea.

Even after Elin was born, I must have hung on to this thought, because I found myself expressing it in so many words to a friend. This friend has two young children whom she conceived easily, and we were discussing the topic of whether or not to go back to work. “I just feel like, after trying to conceive this baby for four years, it would be crazy to go back and barely see her,” I said.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how superior and offensive they sounded. The decision of whether to work or stay home is an agonizing one for any new mother, regardless of how long she tried for a baby, just as every mom I know is extremely grateful for her child and tries her best to be loving, patient and engaged.

Another outcome of infertility, I hoped, would be my ability to give hope to other women experiencing it. After all, I got my happy ending — despite my deep fear and half-certainty that it “would never happen” — so it was possible for others to also find their resolution.

The problem with this line of thinking is that conception is no respecter of persons; there is no rhyme or reason to whom she smiles upon. Just because I got what I was longing for doesn’t mean anyone else will.

This came home to roost for me when an old high school acquaintance reached out over a private Facebook message. She had seen my birth announcement and accompanying hash tag, #IVFmiracle, and confided that she, too, was going through infertility and considering IVF as a course of action. Being the big believer that I am, I strongly encouraged her to pursue it. It seemed divine: My bravery in attempting IVF and finding success would in turn give someone else the courage to try it and have the child she otherwise would never have had.

Unlike me, this person openly shared her journey on Facebook: She documented every injection, retrieval, transfer, blood draw, fear and hope. I liked every update, holding my breath and praying she would get a positive.

It wasn’t to be. They had transferred their only two embryos without success and had no more money for additional attempts.

I sent my condolences, assured her I was praying for her and admired her. But it felt so hollow and thin. Of course, her decision to try IVF was hers, but in the aftermath, I could see no purpose or redemption in my own infertility experience, only her heartache.

Why did I go through infertility? I can’t say my faith is stronger (I still grapple with doubts and questions). I can’t say my marriage is stronger (we’ll never get back those years of sex-as-duty/chore/means to an end/reminder of our damaged reproductive systems). Maybe I’m a little stronger, a little more empathetic, but at the same time I still wrestle with bitterness every time I hear someone talk with cavalier certainty about their “next child.”

Anyone who goes through infertility will have to find their own reasons, their own explanations, their own morals of the story.

For me, the answer is in the tiny face I see every morning: the particulars of her deep blue eyes and soft, transparent lashes. How pink her skin is and the fluttering movements of her long little fingers. The faint dimple when she smiles, the subtle way her nose is upturned. Her round belly, her feathery hair, her cheeks for days.

It’s in the exact sounds she makes when she coos and jabbers, the demanding cries that let me know she’s serious about wanting out of the crib. It’s how she loves to lie on her play mat and gaze up at her hanging toys, eyes shining. How she never seems to want to miss a minute and gets mad the second she senses the approach of naptime. It’s how opinionated she is even at 12 weeks, detesting tummy time, splashing her legs curiously in the bath. How she reaches her tiny hand to my lips for a kiss.

For all I don’t understand about the years I spent lost in the fog and trauma of infertility, I know one thing for sure: If I hadn’t gone through it, I wouldn’t have had the exact human being who is Elin Reese. I would never have known her, this perfect, squishy, unique, individual baby who is a combination of one particular sperm injected by hand into one particular egg in a laboratory. She is worth every tear, worth every penny we spent, worth our long wait. Her very life is why I went through infertility.