Infertility awareness week. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—what a bizarre concept when infertility takes over your entire life. In reflecting on my own infertility journey, I am thrown back into a swirl of emotions and an often silent hell that 12% of women live with in our country.
We started trying for a family 8 years, 4 months and 24 days ago. I have a library of “how to get pregnant” books. A long, depressing and desperate search history. I have shed enough tears to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool. We’ve spent thousands and thousands of dollars on mind and body altering drugs at an attempt to get my body to do what it was supposedly designed for (shout out to my health insurance companies who haven’t covered a dime).
We didn’t know just how hard it would be. We didn’t know we would have to dig deeper into ourselves than we ever had for strength and faith and hope—even when no hope could be found.
But on this day, exactly 8 years, 4 months and 24 days into trying to build our family, I am lucky enough to reflect and look back with a warmth in my heart. After 4 years of trying (one of which was spent in the local fertility doctor’s office) we were blessed with Lucy. The doctor said our odds were low with this cycle, we should look into IVF, they still didn’t know why things weren’t working. And my body said lol to science and defied those odds. Our angel baby was the perfect way to start our family, even if it took us four years to get her.
After two miscarriages (one technically a chemical pregnancy), we almost lost hope… again. I was getting older (evidently 35 is ancient in fertility years). Fewer follicles were developing. Etc. Etc. It’s these moments when the questions swirl in your head. Am I not a good mother? Did I not try hard enough, put enough of my heart into it? What did I do to piss off the fertility gods? Is Lucy not deserving of siblings? Why did I see a flicker of a heartbeat, only to have it taken away 2 weeks later?
It’s these moments that creep up, even if you think you’re handling it well. Even if you’ve been on this journey for YEARS. It doesn’t get easier. You get numb and used to the disappointment, but it never ever gets easier.
Then a year later, once again, my doctor gave my body a timeline. “You’ve done a few IUIs now. We should probably talk next steps and other options. blah blah blah. disappointment disappointment disappointment.”
If my body laughed in the face of statistics with Lucy’s IUI cycle, it said “go ahead and fuck right off” with this cycle. Not only did it work… it was giving us two. babies. Identical twin boys who are a crazy answer to an almost decade of uncertainty. They will be here in four weeks and our infertility journey will come to a close. No more drugs. No more ultrasounds. No more wondering when or why. It’s over. The scars are still there. They are fresh. They are deep. But this chapter is closing.
I realize how deeply lucky I am. I know so many women who won’t get an ending like this. My heart aches for them. Tears flow for them. I will never not be deeply saddened when I hear of another person struggling to get pregnant.
Infertility comes in many forms with many disappointments. Sometimes you get a success, often times you don’t. So this week and every week, I think about the statistics. I think about the tears. I think about how many people in my circle, my community and beyond are living in that same, silent hell.
You are seen, you are known and you are not alone.
