The talk: IVF

It finally happened.

The day that was my ultimate infertility nightmare.

The three letters that hit me like a train came up: IVF

Before we first met with the reproductive endocrinologist for our fertility struggle, I thought I was doing things right and decided to set limits. I said I would never do IVF. IVF wasn't for me. It wasn't for me until our last appointment.

I went into the appointment anxious. I was anxious because I knew the conversation I was going to have. Over two years of trying, endless doctor visits, and too many meds that gave me all the negative side effects, all lead to this conversation.
The no-nonsense, best chances, conversation I started was something that I didn't see myself doing. It made it feel like I was giving up. I wasn't.
I was tired. I am tired.
Tired of being sad and disappointed every month.
Tired of being in a dark place in my life.

We sat down and talked 100% facts on our chances. We were on meds and trigger shots with timed intercourse because our levels weren't good enough for IUI. She proceeded to tell us that because our levels were so off (aka bad) that the meds and trigger shots didn't give us much better chance.
IUI wasn't a good option until one level doubled and another level dropped half.
My heart sunk. My eyes stayed dry. This pain was too deep to bring up tears.
I wanted options.
The doctor gave me what she said would be our only realistic chance to conceive was through IVF.
In my head, I sarcastically remark that we're also realistically going bankrupt if we do IVF.
The cost of IVF is mind blowing: it's a straight gamble.

While I'm having this small pity party for myself, I go over in my head what I could've done in my life have avoided this situation.
There's nothing.

 The question to go through with IVF or not is loaded with burdens: emotional and financial being the biggest.

Rock bottom.

I don't know how fertility nurses do it. Half of their job is to deliver you bad news. I guess it must be the half that provides hope.

I got the call with about 30 minutes left in the day.
Another one of our test results came in off the deep end of the spectrum. 
It came back to far on the bad side that they said our chances of IVF success rate were not high enough and they wouldn't recommend doing it.

Luckily we have a great doctor and nurse combination that didn't make me feel like my world was crashing down. Luckily I was at work and had to keep myself together.

Luckily I waited until I go into my car to cry. I had to tell my husband the terrible results and terrible news. The poor guy has been through so much in his life, losing both parents before age 25, that I felt twice the heart break. He has thick skin because he's been through so much. Skin so thick that I told him and he just went on about his day. He's so much stronger than I am in this area that I feel bad crying and getting upset about it in front of him.

I looked all around and felt alone. No one wants to hear about sadness. No one wants to hear about infertility. 

I got these terrible results that I had to hold inside (and share on here because let's face it, I don't have any followers). I felt like the grim reaper walking around. I shared the information with one friend who lives across the country and she managed to understand and had flowers delivered to me. 

It's one of those times that you really find out who your friends are, the quality friends: the ones that can look you in the eye and know that something is wrong; the ones that will soak up your tears, the ones that will bring you a bottle of wine and say let's cry this thing out together, the ones that will bring over your favorite movie for a laugh, the ones that are across the country and still send you a hug over the phone--it's those ones that count.

Maybe this is my silver lining--finding out who's real.

As I throw myself this pity party and my cup of coffee catches my tears, I tell myself to get over it and stop feeling bad for myself. I try to run away from this ominous rain cloud and into the sunshine.

Maybe now I can spend the rest of my life traveling the world, living carefree on an adventure.
Maybe now I can start my own business and work those long hours establishing myself without worrying about missing out on my kid's events.
Maybe not I can workout and get into great shape.

The maybes fulfill me for a brief time before my world crashes down on me.
I need time to grieve. I need to process this experience. Most of all, I need to move on.

One test, ten steps back

All it took was one test.
One test's bad results rocked my world.
Two days before the doctor's only option for us was insemination. While I was trying to stomach the idea that the various types of insemination were our only options, I was also a bit hopeful because we had options.

We had options for two days. Two days of hope, excitement, uncertainty, and feeling like we were moving forward.

Then we got one test result that was bad. It was so bad that the doctor wouldn't move forward with us. We're again, stuck in limbo. We'd done these very same tests months ago and everything came back normal. With the specific test, which I'm going to remain nameless, we came back at 6% and normal is 40%. My heart literally sunk and I swallowed the tears as I'm frantically writing notes onto a sheet of paper while the doctor was explaining everything to me. I was too caught up in getting the facts to cry.

My husband comes home for lunch and we talk about the results. I remain calm because he's always calm and relaxed about everything. He leaves to go back to work and I lose it. I can't pull myself together to face the world. I just want to curl up in a ball and get away from it all. I want to hop on a plane and go to some far away exotic island where I can be too wrapped up in island life to worry about it all. But I can't.

Retest in two weeks and again in eight weeks.

This is going to be the longest time in my life. I can't even think about dealing with the sincere question of how the "whole baby thing" is going.

To top it off, work isn't the best.

When it rains it pours I guess.
Until it stops, I'll be waiting for that rainbow after the rain.

Katie

Unexplained Infertility itself is a journey. It makes you step back and really look at the important things in your life. It also makes you hurt and think of all the things you would change about your past. It makes you hurt and have to tackle each day with that same painful smile on your face. It makes you busy trying to distract yourself. It makes you lonely.

The worst thing it does: it makes you put a price tag on a child.

After our RE appointment, the choices she recommended were exciting. They were exciting until we got to the details. Calculating how much it was going to cost and calculating how far we could or would be willing to go with our modest incomes.

The excitement of starting next cycle wore off as soon as the price tag was put on.

What am I doing? Am I so selfish that I would spend our live savings to maybe have a baby. The maybe is key. There are no guarantees. There's no money back. There's no tears back either. As if infertility isn't stressful enough, you just go ahead and top it with crazy big doctors bills.

As in all things in life, the choices make it hard.

I don't think there is a right or wrong in this. I think there's heartache either way.
There's pain and anger.
There's excitement and fear.

How do you share something like this? If we move forward, how do we tell people? What do we say when people say, "I can't believe you finally got pregnant!"? How do we respond? Is it a simple smile and thanks or is it something like, "Yeah..we worked really hard with our team of doctors to get this, it's truly a gift." I know I'm jumping way ahead of myself, but those are the things going on in my mind.

If you've done this, please leave a comment and offer advice.

The Wait to the Specialist

As the hospital referral clerk called to set up our appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist (RE) I felt like I just got socked in the face.

I went into the infertility battle (yes, it's a daily battle) thinking that my local women's doctor would be able to help us finally have a baby. Nope. I feel like I need a t-shirt that says, "I went on Clomid and all I got was crazy."

While speaking with the RE's clinic, the details of the appointment keep piling up. She tells me that I should bring a notebook to the appointment  and that the appointment will take at least two hours. Initial reaction: I mean are the going to spend 2 hours staring at my crotch!?!?!
Secondary reaction: Insert stress about getting time off work for the hubs and myself. Insert stress about the upfront fee. Gulp.

She also mentions that we will be meeting with a genetic specialist. I think that's what scares me. While it's comforting knowing we're going to be taken good care of, we still might not find an answer. Or even worse, it'll be something genetic that can't be fixed.

It's a scary thing to be told that you'll receive a large package of paperwork in the mail before the appointment.I have a theory that the more paperwork involved, the more serious the issue. I don't know that I'm scared or that I'm just sad because it's gotten to this point where it is a real big (and expensive) issue that can't be fixed by my normal doctor.

I go over it in head and try to replay life's events that may have lead up to this and wonder how did it get to serious so fast. Yet, it didn't. It's been over two years. Now I'm wondering if I should've done this all sooner. I didn't think that at 27 it would be so hard to have a baby. I mean, that's what people do at this stage, right?

Ugh. It's over a month away. The wait will be tough. I'm still hopefully that simply scheduling the appointment will just make things happen. Overall, I'm happy with this. I'm happy that we scheduled an appointment because no matter the outcome, it's a step forward. I've been very optimistic. I confess that I bought a to-die-for onsie (ok so three :) ) that I'm saving in a little box under the bed for that one day when the test shows up positive.

What was your first RE appointment like? Honest answers welcomed.

Cheers to wishful thinking,
Katie