By Tia.
Thank you IVFbabble for allowing me to talk about a topic that not a lot of women, and couples, muddling through fertility treatments ever really want to consider – stopping IVF and beginning a future without children.
My husband and I were recently faced with this exact conclusion. It was equally the hardest, most gut-wrenching, yet painfully obvious decision I believe we have ever had to make in life.
We are officially outsiders. There will never be Christmas mornings, starting before sunrise, with shrills of children gasping at the pile of presents under the tree. I will never feel those little kicks, as I grow a life inside of me. We will never have the back-handed luxury of budgeting for daycare and college, striving to give our kids a life better than ours. I will no longer be grasping at straws to be a part of the in-crowd, to follow and forge my own path as a mom. No longer am I going to be able to align myself with the droves of women, exhausted from lack of sleep but so incredibly filled with love for their children.
These little, yet monumental moments of sacrifice and joy, have been laid to rest this year, following our fourth IVF egg retrieval, third transfer, and second miscarriage.
My most beloved grandfather was rushed to the hospital with terminal cancer in June 2012, and passed away three days later. Watching him pass on in that hospital room, surrounded by his closest family members, is what sparked my desire to become a mother.
Days turned into weeks that eventually turned into months. And as we approached the dreaded one-year mark without even a hint at a positive pregnancy test, I started to panic. I couldn’t imagine not becoming a mom, but it was clearly not working the old-fashioned way. I knew invasive testing was in our near future. At the time I was dead set on not pursuing IVF. I was terrified of needles and it absolutely seemed insane to need that type of intervention for something that came so naturally to millions of women.
I was convinced I wasn’t broken…maybe we just weren’t, ahem, doing it right?
After many tear-filled talks with my Gyno, three failed medicated Clomid rounds, and a slew of preliminary testing, nothing came back glaringly wrong. We were labeled with Unexplained Infertility and given a recommendation to a Reproduction Endocrinologist (RE).
Finally, towards the end of 2014, we resigned to our first consult with Dr. Jacobs at FCI. My husband and I were terrified but hopeful. We were walked through what an IUI (intrauterine insemination) was, and although the odds of success were lower than we expected, it seemed like a sure shot.
At the same time, we were given another nugget to chew on. Dr. Jacobs suggested both of us complete genetic testing.
The results would show us if we were carriers for any genetic diseases that be potentially fatal to our future child. We have always been advocates of knowledge and technology, and agreed immediately.
The results were shocking and crushing. Both of us came back as carriers of an autosomal recessive genetic disease called MCAD. We don’t have MCAD, but we carry it in our DNA. What this would mean is a 1 in 4 chance of birthing a baby WITH MCAD. The odds were too high for us to ignore. We didn’t want to spend the rest of our days in and out of hospitals, or worse, with a baby that doesn’t live more than a few weeks. Armed with that information our IUI was promptly cancelled, leaving us with our only option. IVF with PGD genetic testing.
That’s the thing with infertility. It doesn’t show you its whole deck of cards right away.
It starts out small, with a procedure here and there, and the next thing you know, you’re up against the wall, facing the exact thing you said you’d never do.
2016 and 2017 were spent completely consumed with fertility treatments and overcoming dismal results. On top of our genetic issues, I learned I had low antral follicle count, high FSH, low progesterone, and relatively old eggs for my age. It took months for our genetic test to be set-up, which involved many blood draws and cheek swabs from us and our parents.
Our credit card was maxed out and each month a massive box of pills and injections would arrive at our doorstep. Our fridge and bathroom looked like a medical facility. There were sharps containers in every corner of our house.
The sting of the injection and smell of alcohol swabs became oddly comforting to me.
Most of 2016 was spent completing retrieval after retrieval.
The goal was to bank as many embryos as possible for genetic testing. After three retrievals, we were left with only two genetically normal embryos.
Our first transfer was a disaster. Not even a faint line on a pregnancy test and negative beta.
Our second embryo transfer in 2016 left much to be desired. We had already mentally prepared for this to be the end of our journey and I prayed every day that this transfer would make me a mom.
And it did.
My beta numbers were through the roof! I was pregnant and we were ecstatic!
We spent Thanksgiving sharing the news with friends and family as I approached the 7 week-mark. Sure, it was early, but we had worked so hard for this how could we NOT share? Week after week, I went in for ultrasounds that showed our growing baby boy. I graduated from the clinic just shy of 9 weeks and finally got to stop the daily injections to help support my hormones.
And then the bleeding started. Fresh, red blood one morning threw me into a complete panic.
An impromptu ultrasound revealed baby was doing great and there was no cause for concern. But brown blood continued each day.
Finally, a few days before Christmas, the bleeding subsided and we thought we were in the clear.
Christmas Eve, I noticed I had some continuous lower back cramping. I shook it off as a result from standing too long, so I took it easy. Plus, there was no blood, so I was only slightly worried.
These symptoms continued through midnight after Christmas, when the bleeding ramped up again, as did the cramping. I was just over ten weeks along at this point.
Scared out of my mind, I begged my husband to give me another progesterone injection, fearing we stopped too soon.
The cramping and bleeding eventually stopped for a bit and I was able to fall asleep.
The next day, December 26th, I miscarried.
In a matter of minutes spent pacing between the bedroom and the bathroom, waves of labor-like pain washed over me. I feared I was going to pass out from the pain. I was passing clots that kept getting bigger and bigger until…..we saw the sack that held our baby. Our tiny baby boy.
It was over. All this hard work. Our future. Motherhood. Parenthood. Everything was over.
I spent months recovering, both physically and mentally.
I wanted that baby so badly I dreamed about doing crazy things. I wanted to hop back in the saddle immediately and started setting up another round of IVF in 2017 in between waves of grief.
In May, we did what we said we’d never do.
I completed another retrieval that yielded us one more perfect embryo.
Our last chance.
October 13th was our third transfer. And believe you me, I was convinced I was pregnant. I had all the positive feelings for about a week, and then they sort of…subsided.
My feelings were confirmed when our pregnancy tests came back positive, yet not nearly as strong as the last transfer. Unfortunately, the beta numbers reflected my concerns. It was 17 (it should be around 300 that day).
Two days later, my number plummeted to 3 and I eventually miscarried again within a week.
So, at this point, I am sure outsiders may be thinking….”well, it did work…it could work again! Just keep going with the testing and rule out everything and get back on that saddle and try, try, try again!”
And that is true. We can keep testing. Keep seeking answers. Keep digging.
Keep at this Pandora’s box of endless technology and science until finally, FINALLY, I get and stay pregnant, have my miracle baby, and live the life I have dreamed about for five years.
Right?
But when this third transfer failed, and we were left staring at, well, nothing….the urge to keep going faded abruptly. I have always been the warrior to keep fighting the good fight, but this time, it was overwhelming.
IVF became this insane addiction for me. Immediately following the low of lows with a failed transfer, I want nothing more than to gain back that high of hope and happiness of all the possibilities that IVF could potentially bring to us.
IVF, infertility, and pregnancy have consumed my every thought, every dream, every-everything for five. solid. years. My entire life…every article I read, every conversation with friends and family, every pill I swallowed, every lifestyle change….has all been for this phantom baby.
I don’t even recognize myself some days.
I have become this efficient IVF machine. I know exactly what to do to buy insurance, negotiate issues, seek out alternatives, and research. I can plan an entire cycle. I know the fertility clinic’s entire yearly retrieval and transfer calendar by heart. I know exactly how I will respond to every poisonous injection. I know exactly how many days it takes to get to retrieval, to get the results, and to get through transfer. I always knew my baby’s due dates, and all the milestones along the way.
This is not the life I want to live anymore.
After five incredibly taxing years, searching for the right combination of medication, lifestyle and luck, we are walking away from the path to become parents.
It was always in our hearts to have a biological child, together, or not at all. We were never open to the idea of adoption or donor intervention, and while those alternatives are completely normal and logical next steps, we realized the bigger need is to create a live worth living together, as a family of two.
It’s scary and overly simple yet completely exhausting these days.
I keep writing and sharing my story because, although IVF is typically the golden standard on the road to parenthood, it doesn’t always work out that way. And that’s okay.
Sure, grief still rears its ugly head from time to time, and I absolutely wish the outcome had been different. But that is not the way life is shaping up for us, and for once, I am allowing myself to be pulled in the direction I’m supposed to go, as opposed to forcing something that is not right for us. We are not lesser humans because we may not ever have children of our own.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I am damn sure it’ll be a life worth living.
Tia x
