Letter to the new (infertile) kid on the block

Dear newbie,

Whether you know me personally or not, I was you. I was at the beginning of this supremely shitty journey once.

A brief aside: I kinda hate the word journey. It’s both overused and trite, particularly in the context of infertility. It implies a destination ahead. And many days, you’ll have one. A baby in your sights. Some days, though, that destination may need to be relief from the physical and emotional pain you’re likely to experience. I’m truly sorry that you’ll feel this hurt.

When I was where you are on this road (that word somehow feels a bit more natural to me), I had few resources to talk me through what was to come. That was lonely, and it sucked. I hope that you’re able to take an exit ramp long before where I am now, but no matter where you depart, know that you’re never alone. Infertility is probably going be the most alienating thing you ever experience. It has been even more so than the chronic depression I’ve struggled with, although I’ve found they go hand in hand for me.

If you’re reading this, then you’ve likely found that within a few Google searches you can find others online like you. I urge you to use the web wisely, though. Seek out forums, communities and blogs that can be a source of strength for you. Just read, or share your own experience. Step away when the web becomes alarmist. Reading others experiences can be helpful, but do your best not to let these stories trigger your own fears. You’ll have created plenty in your own brain. Don’t fuel them. Remember that every woman is different and none of us have all the answers. That thought alone will probably land somewhere between comforting and frightening, and that’s okay.

When you’re ready, share your thoughts and feelings with someone. That person can be your partner, but it doesn’t have to be. Not every partner will be able to relate to the myriad of thoughts and feelings you’re having. That’s okay, too. They may grieve losses and manage anxieties differently than you do. It can make you crazy, but give them space to process infertility in their own way. It’s their struggle, too. Instead, or in addition to, seek out a therapist, a family member, a friend — whom ever you can feel comfortable and safe with. Resolve offers many peer-led support groups across many cities. When you find one, I urge you to give it a try. Talking aloud does help you feel less lonely. The strength of the women I’ve met in my local group can prop up the world. I’m grateful I can share in that.

This road may get scary. I’m sorry for that, too. I hope that those periods of fear are brief for you. If you do feel yourself wearing a little too thin, though, put yourself first. Advocate for yourself with your doctor. Ask the questions. Sometimes a little more information or a less jargony explanation can help ease your fears. Remember that the end goal of a baby isn’t the only thing that matters. You do, too. You’re here now, and this road is hard.

Sometimes you will feel afraid and empty, but you’re not a failure. What your body can or cannot do doesn’t determine your worth. I’ve spent far too many sleepless nights and dazed commutes focusing on how my body has failed me. Those thoughts only multiplied my frustration and left me drained of hope. Never once were they productive. Remember to be kind to yourself.

I don’t yet have a happy ending to my story to share with you. You’ll hear a lot of stories about how your friend’s cousin’s stepsister-in-law got pregnant after she stopped trying and relaxed. Each one will probably make you want to scream and curse. That’s okay. I hate hearing them, too. The majority of people who offer these stories have no idea what you’re navigating right now. They just want to offer their support. If someone who loves you asks if they can do anything for you, tell them what you need. Or at least ask for homemade brownies during your next two week wait. Those never hurt.

You can do this. So can I.

Your fellow infertile sister,

Ashley

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Photo by David Whittaker via Pexels

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What if there’s nothing left

2018. Will this be the year that we finally… no, don’t bother finishing that sentence. We all know how it goes, right?

We started with our fertility clinic in January of 2015 after trying for two years. 2018 will be the end of this road, no matter where it leads.

We’re putting together the financials for one more stim cycle, to hopefully begin shortly after the new year. I’ll pump myself full of hormones until my belly feels ready to pop, and then we’ll wait. Hold our collective breath to see if we have any normal embryos.

Last time I stimmed, my doctor retrieved 23 eggs. Those resulted in only six blastocysts. One of which remains frozen and waiting. I remember being excited to hear that we had six. I thought, well I’m certainly not going to have six kids, so we’re fiiiine.┬áNaive. I was tested but still untested.

This time I will be nearly two years older. To my credit (since I take so little of it), my AMH is still good for 36. I have little doubt that stimming this time will be easy. Easy in the sense that my body will respond appropriately. But not easy at all.

Listen, I’m terrified that we won’t get any normal embryos after PGS testing. That’s what I just have to say. The five previously were not good, but we didn’t know that then. 3AB and her Frozen siblings, Anna, Elsa, Olaf and, then, Anakin. None of them found their home.

I liked the whimsy of having named my embryos. It brought me some levity to the science of it all. But I’m not sure I can name them this time. Really, I just want at least one to have the option of naming.

Just give me one and I’ll shut the hell up.