When we married in February of 2005, we both unequivocally knew we wanted children. In fact, we started trying immediately and were hoping for a honeymoon baby.
The months passed and there was no baby despite the fact that we had purchased every high tech ovulation calculator on the market and had read every book available on conception. Each month the hope of a baby came and went along with our dreams. We would look up potential birthdates through pregnancy calculators and had a slew of names picked out, but still, no baby.
After a year, we visited a reproductive endocrinologist who diagnosed us with male factor and immune issues and recommended we undergo intrauterine insemination. We were told that we were an “easy case” based on our conditions and ages, Anna, 31, and Mike, 41. We were optimistic.
That was a year and half ago. Since then we’ve undergone two intrauterine inseminations, three in-vitro inseminations and two frozen embryo transfers. In total, we’ve had nineteen embryos transferred. We’ve been pregnant three times and not one surpassed the first trimester.
Anna and Mike
The first pregnancy was classified as an ectopic, where a fertilized egg developed outside the uterus. Since it’s a life-threatening situation, a drug called methotrexate was administered to terminate the embryos’ growth. This is the same drug given for the treatment of cancer. The last pregnancy resulted in a blighted ovum, where a fertilized egg attached itself to the uterine wall, but the embryo did not develop. At seven weeks we saw a sac, but there was no baby.
Infertility has changed us. It’s made us stagnant. It’s scarred us. Our scars run deep at an emotional, spiritual and financial level. And then there is the physical irony which is the pronounced “pregnant-like” stomach that once held the hope of a life. It doesn’t want to subside.
Our doctors speak with caution now. Unsure of what the “issue” is, they talk of egg, uterine, blood and even digestive issues and mention donors and surrogates and words that two years ago were foreign to us. We’re a “complicated” case now.
Plans are made, fresh attempts that carry with them so much promise. We wait for periods, shots, appointments, nurses, doctors, phone calls, bills, a sign – any sign – from God or the universe that this time it will work. This is the time that will make up for all the disappointments and heartbreaks. We will resume normalcy: an ordinary couple at the park cueing over our baby’s latest sound, gesture and smile.
In the meantime, we wait. New jobs, homes, trips, pets, parties, diets remain on hold. And the thought of stopping – giving up – is never mentioned, because what that would imply, is simply, inconceivable.
