The Starting Line
I've struggled for a very long time with this blog. I wasn't even sure I wanted to publish it; it's been sitting in my queue as I decided whether or not to make it public. However, my need to get it all on paper (well, screen) won out.
For over two years Husband and I have tried to start a family. We knew we had a few obstacles -- Husband's past medical issues, my age -- against us, but we were confident we would be fine. However, we soon learned we had absolutely no idea how much of a roller coaster ride we were in for.
After six months we discovered that our obstacles were much more serious than we realized. Typically doctors want couples to try for a year before seeking medical help, so we approached the next six months with cautious optimism. Suddenly we found ourselves at a year and had to make the appointment we thought we wouldn't need (which, thanks to the joys of managed care, meant waiting four additional months). We suddenly found ourselves thrust into the chaotic life of constantly taking tests, watching the calendar like hawks, trying different vitamins, and more. I underwent one particularly painful test only to be told that everything looked fine. The best part of all this? Neither of our insurance companies would cover any of this. We were already paying for this nightmare emotionally; now we had the privilege of paying for it financially too.
In the meantime people around us were announcing their first, second, even third pregnancies. I found myself getting irrationally angry at casual acquaintances and celebrities sharing their joy, and I had to consciously remind myself that they weren't purposely rubbing their fertility in my face. I was becoming obsessed with internet forums that, despite truly teaching me a lot, also amazed me at the number of women so desperate to become mothers that they were willing to ignore the basic biology of their bodies just to cling to a distant hope. I started to worry that, at least inwardly, I was beginning to do the same.
Finally at 18 months we thought we had turned a corner -- we went to a second doctor who recommended a particular procedure as a course of action. We jumped at the chance and followed every direction given in preparation. We were scared that the odds of success were not in our favor -- less than 20% -- but we told ourselves that it was finally our time, that we would be the ones to prove the statistics wrong...until the day of the procedure. As we nervously waited for the doctor to look over some diagnostic tests we'd undergone, we quietly sat in the waiting room surrounded by expectant mothers. We didn't say anything, but I know we were both thinking the same thing: would that soon be me?
We were called back to see the doctor, and she sadly told us that our chances were much lower than she hoped. They were so low, in fact, that she offered to give us our money back. We went through with it anyways because at that point, what else could we do? I had managed to get the whole day off and went home to cry the rest of the afternoon while Husband was forced to wipe the tears away and head to work, where he threw himself into whatever task he could find as a distraction. We told ourselves that perhaps there was a still a chance; miracles happen, right? Unfortunately we learned soon after that a miracle was not to be ours. Our doctor recommended we visit a fertility clinic to learn more about IVF.
So that's what we did. We went to our initial consultation and I was so overwhelmed and scared that I cried nearly the entire time We underwent yet more tests (all of which we still had to pay for ourselves). We waited anxiously for the doctor to call us with the results, and when the call finally came we weren't prepared for what we heard. Our biggest issue wasn't Husband, like we thought; it was me. To say I was shocked was an understatement. Husband had spent nearly the last two years feeling immensely guilty for being the possible reason we hadn't had a baby, and all of a sudden it hit us that the guilt was actually mine.
The doctor recommended that if we were to move forward with treatment, we would need outside help. That weekend we spent a lot of time discussing, reflecting, making pro/con lists, and crying. We realized if we moved forward with the doctor's recommendation that we would only have one shot at it -- we wouldn't be able to afford to try twice. Even if it was successful, there would be a lot of complications that could arise with a pregnancy. And if it wasn't successful...well, that would be that. There would be no second chance. We would be in serious debt with nothing to show for it but broken hearts and an empty bedroom that would never be a nursery.
So, that's where we are. We have decided to no longer pursue fertility treatment. Instead, we are planning to meet with an adoption agency and decide if we have the strength to take that risk or if we need to build a different life than we envisioned that fulfills us in other ways. There are others in our position who would have surely taken the chance, and there might be some who think, "Well, if they really wanted it badly enough..." To them I say: you don't know us. You don't know how we feel at all. We are fully aware of our emotional, financial, and physical reserves; IVF would drain all three and likely leave us with nothing. Yes we want to be parents, but at what cost? We cannot lose ourselves in this process.
In the meantime Husband and I are lucky to have each other. We've had some emotionally difficult conversations, but we've never once fought. Having each other's backs, though, doesn't necessarily make it easy. I recently attended a concert where the singer welcomed a baby girl a few months back and wanted to dedicate a song to her; I had to quickly excuse myself so I wouldn't burst into tears. Facebook pregnancy announcements still hurt. Writing this now hurts. Knowing that it doesn't matter how many tests and medications I take I may still never be pregnant hurts. Venting to the few people who've known about this journey hurts. Keeping a brave face in public hurts. Constantly thinking about it despite wanting not to hurts. Realizing that even if we beat the odds a pregnancy is going to likely be hard on me physically and emotionally hurts. We now dread Mother's Day and Father's Day. Recently my nephew asked me out of nowhere if I was going to have kids and when. I'm ready for it to finally stop hurting.
For over two years Husband and I have tried to start a family. We knew we had a few obstacles -- Husband's past medical issues, my age -- against us, but we were confident we would be fine. However, we soon learned we had absolutely no idea how much of a roller coaster ride we were in for.
After six months we discovered that our obstacles were much more serious than we realized. Typically doctors want couples to try for a year before seeking medical help, so we approached the next six months with cautious optimism. Suddenly we found ourselves at a year and had to make the appointment we thought we wouldn't need (which, thanks to the joys of managed care, meant waiting four additional months). We suddenly found ourselves thrust into the chaotic life of constantly taking tests, watching the calendar like hawks, trying different vitamins, and more. I underwent one particularly painful test only to be told that everything looked fine. The best part of all this? Neither of our insurance companies would cover any of this. We were already paying for this nightmare emotionally; now we had the privilege of paying for it financially too.
In the meantime people around us were announcing their first, second, even third pregnancies. I found myself getting irrationally angry at casual acquaintances and celebrities sharing their joy, and I had to consciously remind myself that they weren't purposely rubbing their fertility in my face. I was becoming obsessed with internet forums that, despite truly teaching me a lot, also amazed me at the number of women so desperate to become mothers that they were willing to ignore the basic biology of their bodies just to cling to a distant hope. I started to worry that, at least inwardly, I was beginning to do the same.
Finally at 18 months we thought we had turned a corner -- we went to a second doctor who recommended a particular procedure as a course of action. We jumped at the chance and followed every direction given in preparation. We were scared that the odds of success were not in our favor -- less than 20% -- but we told ourselves that it was finally our time, that we would be the ones to prove the statistics wrong...until the day of the procedure. As we nervously waited for the doctor to look over some diagnostic tests we'd undergone, we quietly sat in the waiting room surrounded by expectant mothers. We didn't say anything, but I know we were both thinking the same thing: would that soon be me?
We were called back to see the doctor, and she sadly told us that our chances were much lower than she hoped. They were so low, in fact, that she offered to give us our money back. We went through with it anyways because at that point, what else could we do? I had managed to get the whole day off and went home to cry the rest of the afternoon while Husband was forced to wipe the tears away and head to work, where he threw himself into whatever task he could find as a distraction. We told ourselves that perhaps there was a still a chance; miracles happen, right? Unfortunately we learned soon after that a miracle was not to be ours. Our doctor recommended we visit a fertility clinic to learn more about IVF.
So that's what we did. We went to our initial consultation and I was so overwhelmed and scared that I cried nearly the entire time We underwent yet more tests (all of which we still had to pay for ourselves). We waited anxiously for the doctor to call us with the results, and when the call finally came we weren't prepared for what we heard. Our biggest issue wasn't Husband, like we thought; it was me. To say I was shocked was an understatement. Husband had spent nearly the last two years feeling immensely guilty for being the possible reason we hadn't had a baby, and all of a sudden it hit us that the guilt was actually mine.
The doctor recommended that if we were to move forward with treatment, we would need outside help. That weekend we spent a lot of time discussing, reflecting, making pro/con lists, and crying. We realized if we moved forward with the doctor's recommendation that we would only have one shot at it -- we wouldn't be able to afford to try twice. Even if it was successful, there would be a lot of complications that could arise with a pregnancy. And if it wasn't successful...well, that would be that. There would be no second chance. We would be in serious debt with nothing to show for it but broken hearts and an empty bedroom that would never be a nursery.
So, that's where we are. We have decided to no longer pursue fertility treatment. Instead, we are planning to meet with an adoption agency and decide if we have the strength to take that risk or if we need to build a different life than we envisioned that fulfills us in other ways. There are others in our position who would have surely taken the chance, and there might be some who think, "Well, if they really wanted it badly enough..." To them I say: you don't know us. You don't know how we feel at all. We are fully aware of our emotional, financial, and physical reserves; IVF would drain all three and likely leave us with nothing. Yes we want to be parents, but at what cost? We cannot lose ourselves in this process.
In the meantime Husband and I are lucky to have each other. We've had some emotionally difficult conversations, but we've never once fought. Having each other's backs, though, doesn't necessarily make it easy. I recently attended a concert where the singer welcomed a baby girl a few months back and wanted to dedicate a song to her; I had to quickly excuse myself so I wouldn't burst into tears. Facebook pregnancy announcements still hurt. Writing this now hurts. Knowing that it doesn't matter how many tests and medications I take I may still never be pregnant hurts. Venting to the few people who've known about this journey hurts. Keeping a brave face in public hurts. Constantly thinking about it despite wanting not to hurts. Realizing that even if we beat the odds a pregnancy is going to likely be hard on me physically and emotionally hurts. We now dread Mother's Day and Father's Day. Recently my nephew asked me out of nowhere if I was going to have kids and when. I'm ready for it to finally stop hurting.
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