Infertility - A Life in Months

I have tried many times to write about infertility. Where do I start? The part where I thought it was my birthright to be a mother? The part where I held everyone's babies my whole life with the self assuredness that one day I would hold my own? The part about the unbelievable loneliness of not talking about something that is part shame, part grief and part anger? The part where I learned that my value was not defined by whether I could bring life into this world? I am not going to write about all the thoughts that I have about infertility today. I am not going to talk about the three plus year journey, the doctors appointments, the prayers or the Hail Marys. One day I will write about it because it is an important issue to talk about and to destigmatize. It is important for women to know that they are not alone in this.

For now, I just want to share a story I wrote over a year and a half ago. The story is painful and somewhat graphic and that is why I have put it after the jump. It is fiction but it is inspired by feelings and experiences I went through. I am sharing it because I wrote it in a time of extreme sadness and pain and I am here now, standing on the other side of that pain, stronger, more assured and with a faith deepened by it having been tested. I am sharing it for anyone who is struggling themselves. I am especially sharing it for partners and friends who may be having difficulty understanding the roller coaster ride that infertility is. 

I whisper, "Why are you dying?"

She doesn't reply.

I lay on my back.

Tears slowly roll from the corner of my eyes.

There is a small computer in the room and the doctor spends most of her time looking at it.

They have the HCG numbers from yesterday.

They are lower.

They will be lower tomorrow.

There is pain in every single pore.

It feels impossible to breathe.

I whisper, "Why are you dying?"

She does not reply.

It started 27 months ago.

"We're going to start trying to have a baby."

"You guys are gonna be the best parents!"

Month 1: I am in a bathroom at my aunt's house. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Wouldn't it be crazy if we got pregnant on just the second try?"

"It would. I can't wait to share this with you."

Month 2: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I feel nauseous!"

"Yayy! Hello, little baby!"

"Don't get too excited yet. We still have to wait and see!"

Month 3: I am in a bathroom in a national park. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I have been getting headaches. And I've been feeling cramping."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Yes, I think this time it might really be it!"

Month 4: I am in a bathroom in my apartment. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I'm not going to jinx it this time!"

"Deal. No talking about it until the test."

"Promise."

"And stop taking tests. I saw six in the garbage can!"

Month 5: I am in a bathroom in Paris. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Try to sound excited when you tell her congratulations."

"I will. I will. I just never expected my kid sister to get pregnant before I did." 

Month 6: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Do you think something's wrong?"

"I read on the internet that it can take up to a year."

"Still... maybe something's wrong. We should see a doctor."

"Lets wait a little longer. Ok?"

Month 7: I am in a bathroom at my best friend's house. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Maybe it just wasn't meant to be."

"Don't say that. It will happen. You'll see."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I will love you until it doesn't hurt anymore."

Month 8: I am in a bathroom in Kiev. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I really think we should see a doctor."

"Let's wait. There's no reason to make it too big of a deal."

"No. I need to see a doctor. I want to know."

Month 9: I am in a bathroom at a baby shower. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"The results are great. You both are healthy."

"Then why isn't it happening?"

"You never know with these things. Let's talk in three months. If you're still not pregnant, we can talk about fertility treatments."

Month 10: I am in a bathroom at my cousin's wedding. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"IUI is a procedure in which we place the sperm inside a women's uterus to help increase the chances of fertilization."

"What is the success rate?"

"It depends. For a couple like you, it's very promising."

Month 11: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Can we do an IUI this month?"

"Let's wait one more month. I'm hopeful you will conceive naturally."

"I can't wait."

"My body shook the whole time. I was so scared."

"I'm sorry. You are my brave angel. Do you hear that baby? You have the most brave mommy."

Month 12: I am in a bathroom at my surprise birthday party. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Is it normal for the IUI not to work the first time? "

"We rarely see someone get pregnant on the first try."

"We should definitely be pregnant after a few more tries?"

"If I was the betting type, I would bet on it."

Month 13: I am in a bathroom at my anniversary dinner. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Have you guys talked about adoption?"

"My doctor says we'll get pregnant."

"I have a friend who got pregnant right after she adopted."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Month 14: I am in a bathroom in Santa Barbara. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Do you think God is punishing us?"

"I don't think you believe in a God like that."

"I love you."

"I will always love you."

Month 15: I am in a bathroom at our favorite restaurant. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I may have unfairly raised your expectations."

"Did you know it wouldn't work?"

"No, no. Its not that. Just in cases like yours, we have a high success rate."

Month 16: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"You know I hadn't cried this whole time?"

"You can cry."

"I know. Yesterday I broke down in the office. I crawled under the desk and I felt the whole building was shaking from my tears."

"Did anyone hear you?"

"I hope God heard me."

Month 17: I am in a bathroom at a concert. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Have you tried acupuncture? I have a friend who tried acupuncture and got pregnant that month."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Month 18: I am in a bathroom in London. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I am so tired."

"I know."

Month 19: I am in a bathroom in Edinburgh. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"You're young."

"God has a plan."

"Maybe you're meant to be doing something else."

"Just relax."

"Have you thought of getting a new doctor?"

"Stop worrying about it."

Month 20: I am in a bathroom at my mother's funeral. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"I think it is time to take a more aggressive approach."

"But you said we wouldn't need that. That we were a healthy couple."

"We can wait for now but we  should talk about IVF soon."

Month 21: I am in a bathroom in my apartment. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Please, God. Please. Please. Please."

Month 22: I am in a bathroom in my apartment. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Please, God. Please. Please. Please."

Month 23: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Lots of women do this. We'll fertilize the egg outside of you. Once the embryo is formed, we'll place it inside you."

"I think this is it. Everything feels different."

Month 24: I am in a bathroom in my apartment. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"Do you know every event of the last two years has been covered in red?"

"I don't understand."

"How could you understand?"

Month 25: I am in a bathroom at work. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"The doctor says my body needs the month off."

"Thats good. A break will be good. You should start getting out again"

Month 26: I am in a bathroom in my apartment. I see the blood. 

It's ok, I'll try again next month.

"This is the last time. The doctor said we might want to consider adoption after this."

"Its going to be ok. Shhh. Its going to be ok." 

Month 27: I am in bathroom after bathroom after bathroom. I wait. I wait. I wait.

It was the happiest seventeen weeks. We were out of the scariest part. The phone kept ringing. Messages were pouring in. God had finally heard us.

They didn't call me into the office to tell me. It was over the phone. The call lasted 1 minute 12 seconds. I know because I checked. 

"Your lab work from Monday shows that your HCG levels have dropped significantly."

My heart stopped. The tears were falling but I knew this could mean anything. I steadied my voice.

"But its ok, right? Should I come in right away?"

"We aren't doing anymore lab work today. You can come in tomorrow at 7 am."

"Thank you."

Why did I thank her? I should have told her she was a liar.

I should have told her to have some fucking compassion. 

I should have told her to say, "I am sorry that I am giving you this incredibly shitty news, that you don't even get to hold her, that you never get to whisper I love you into her ears.

I am sorry that you will be up all night convincing yourself it is a mistake, feeling your stomach for a sign of life.

I am sorry that you will spend the whole night talking to a baby that is already dead."

I should have told her to stay on the phone for more than 1 minute 12 seconds.

Four days later and I was back for the final visit. To confirm the horror for the last time.

I asked her, "Why are you dying?"

She didn't reply.

I laid on my back. 

Tears slowly rolled from the corner of my eyes.

There was a small computer in the room and the doctor spent most of her time looking at it.

They had the HCG numbers from yesterday.

They were lower.

They would be lower tomorrow.

There was pain in every single pore.

It felt impossible to breathe.

I asked her, "Why are you dying?"

She didn't reply.