When my husband and I first decided to grow our family, we vowed to keep it casual. We were young and healthy and assumed we could conceive easily. Except we couldn’t. After a year without success, we visited a reproductive endocrinologist (fertility specialist) to discuss our options. Our doctor assured us that my “perfect ovaries” and my husband’s “super sperm” would find a way to come together. Except they didn’t. And after two more years of seeking solutions that didn’t work, we not-so-casually considered more formal intervention.
The more I learned about in vitro fertilization (IVF), the more I realized how little I knew about it. From what I read, it seemed like a foolproof method of designing picture-perfect families, but it couldn’t be that simple. Feeling confused and alone, I contacted my fertility specialist for guidance. Unfortunately, his vague responses only left me more perplexed.
I sent my case to an outside fertility specialist for a second glance, and within minutes, he identified inconsistencies in my medical records. My anxiety peaked and my confidence dipped. If my current fertility specialist overlooked something as basic as blurry bloodwork, what else did he miss while I was under his care? I deflated as I calculated the time wasted.
Without a minute of my biological clock to spare, I hired my new fertility specialist with strong success rates and a straightforward communication style I could comprehend. If I was going to embark on this IVF journey, I wanted this guy at the wheel. During our first session, he patiently explained his process. But because of the mountain of paperwork that accompanied our conversation, I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of spontaneity in growing a family this document-heavy way. I signed up anyway.
During my next cycle, I entered an office and took my place among the hopeful parents sharing an experience only we could understand. Sitting arm-to-arm with my neighbors, I could almost hear our collective hearts thumping for one goal. The nurse escorted me to a sterile lab area where unbothered patients offered their arms like nail salon customers reporting for their weekly gels. I tried to conjure that same energy, but my newbie nerves couldn’t ignore the blood being drawn from my veins.
Later, in an observation room, a nurse arrived with what looked like a robot from an ‘80s sitcom, notably adorned with a condom-covered arm clearly intended for me. She painlessly inserted the ultrasound wand and guided me through a tour of my uterus. I attempted to follow along — my IVF journey had only just started, and I already felt fatigued from the thoughts inside my head.
I perked up that afternoon when my fertility specialist approved the start of my hormone injections for my upcoming egg retrieval. Canons were ago! But the where and how became different questions. Every night felt like a guessing game of “Am I doing this right?” resulting in bruises or popped blood vessels across my abdomen. Eventually, my belly bloated beyond what any button could wrangle — physical cues that my follicles were primed for fertilization.
Weeks later came the egg retrieval. I lay covered in an oversized paper napkin while my husband made his contribution on another floor. Unsure of what to expect, I distracted myself from an algorithm of possible outcomes by playing mind-numbing games on my phone. My anxiety geared up, but the anesthesia kicked in, and the procedure seemed to end before it began. We left the office with 17 eggs, which then became three viable embryos — three chances to become parents.
The next round of injections caused a bad case of hives all over my bottom, but each painful poke represented one prick closer to becoming a mom. I pulled my big-girl pants over my blotchy cheeks and gritted my teeth, holding onto the notion that pregnancy wasn’t far away. On the day of the embryo transfer, our nurse directed us to a romantically lit room with spa music playing in the background. I appreciated the ambiance. Our fertility specialist introduced us to our embryo, which was sitting comfortably in its petri dish before being launched up my birth canal. And just like that, I got dressed and went to lunch like it was any other day.
Two weeks later, my nurse called with difficult news. The embryo didn’t stick. I felt devastated, but not discouraged enough to prevent me from trying again. I repeated the transfer with more favorable results, and for the first time in my life, I could say I was “pregnant.” But days later, like déjà vu of a bad dream, my nurse informed me my pregnancy didn’t continue.
I sunk into a deep depression. I felt defeated, angry, and pathetic for trying to force a life that maybe wasn’t meant for me. But as I cried on my mom's shoulder, she reminded me of another time she dried my tears — a time when I thought what I desperately wanted would never come. She reminded me that the moment I almost gave up on love, there it was, flirting with me in a bar. My partner proved to be worth waiting for then, and my child would be no different. She urged me not to give up on love again. So, I got out of bed and scheduled my next transfer.
I had just one embryo left, so I committed to anything that could improve its chances. I ditched gluten and dairy. I gave up caffeine and alcohol. I prayed. I even spoke to my embryo, encouraging it to trust me enough to stick with me. But when the procedure ended, I let everything go. I accepted the fact that no matter how much I wanted to control it, the fate of this microscopic being was not up to me or the team of professionals I assembled. Something magical would have to happen. And for whatever reason, this time, I truly believed it would.
During the two-week wait, I distracted myself with work and bad TV. I tried not to think about what might (or might not) grow inside me. I found it easier to compartmentalize my emotions, because I had already felt them all before. And just when I buried my hopes a little too deeply, I got the call during a sunny commute home. With one hand on the wheel and the other over my mouth, I smiled while my exuberant nurse announced my pregnancy over the speaker.
The following eight weeks looked similar to the previous months, yet they felt different — I continued daily injections and morning monitoring, but as I witnessed my shape change, I noticed the benefits of my hard work unfold. Finally, my body was doing what I wanted, and my trust in it grew as my belly grew. I noted my physical resilience as I navigated the ups and downs of pregnancy, never forgetting where my journey began. No matter what I experienced, I reminded myself of what my body did to receive the good news in the car that day. I knew I could handle anything my baby brought my way.
And after fifty-two hours of labor in August, my little boy arrived. A cherubic jokester with a sweet smile, my son exceeded any expectation I had. He made me work to see his blue eyes for the first time, and he continues to challenge me through every phase of his development. But no matter how trying these obstacles can be, they serve as daily mementos of the not-so-casual magic that made him — a magic I plan on calling on again.
This story reflects an individual experience with infertility and should not be taken as medical advice. Consult with your healthcare provider with any specific questions.
If you’re curious about your fertility treatment options and want to learn more, visit Fertility Out Loud for links, articles, and resources.
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