The cruise was amazing, and provided temporary relief from the pain, frustration and stress of our first year of marriage. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful in our one last attempt to conceive naturally before seeking fertility treatments.
My first appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist was intimidating, as I had to go alone. Jeff was in another state on a work trip and I was left to navigate the drive, the building, and this whole new world independently. My doctor was young, kind, and seemed like she was on a mission to help find answers for me. She ordered more bloodwork, urine samples, and another ultrasound for me, as well as future blood work and tests for Jeff. We also scheduled a follow up appointment to discuss the results. (When she stood up to see me out, I noticed that she was in her third trimester of pregnancy…oh the irony.)
A few weeks went by and the follow up appointment was here. I was so thankful that Jeff was able to attend and walking in, we were confident that she would offer up the same suggestion of clomid (for low progesterone) that my Gyno did. We were just excited that we would have someone who would monitor my body’s reaction to it more closely. However, the information that I was forced to ingest after sitting down took my breath away.
Diminished ovarian reserve.
Do not take clomid, do not try IUI, go straight to IVF.
At the ripe old age of 34, I was told that my eggs were lacking in quantity and/or quality.
In that moment, in that chair, my womanhood was given a death sentence. I could not speak, and I could barely listen as my husband asked all the questions. She noted that while we could continue and possibly be successful trying naturally, it could take years. The best course of action for starting our family was IVF.
She clearly saw the pain and shock in my eyes and suggested that we go home to process the diagnosis and decide if we wanted to proceed.
At this time, our house was under construction and we did not even have the opportunity to mourn this news in private. The days that followed involved painting a smile on my face in front of the construction crew each morning as I walked to my parents house, up the stairs to my childhood bedroom, and face planted on a spare bed. I spent the majority of my days laying in that bed, pleading with God to give me answers. I was ashamed, embarrassed, and have never felt more alone in my life. I did not feel that there was anyone that I could share this with, as no one could possibly understand. No one that I know has ever been through infertility. In fact, everyone of my friends conceived on their honeymoon or within 8 months. I truly felt so alone.
At times when I attempted to drop breadcrumbs of information to test the waters of sensitivity, it was met with platitudes or brushed off with comments like “just relax”, “it takes time”, “have more sex”, “go on vacation”, or “I know how you feel, it took us 8 months”. Although well intentioned, these comments dismissed my pain and caused me to put up more walls.
One of my loneliest days (which came only days after my diagnosis) was spent laying on the beach at a bachelorette party listening to moms – younger than me – talk about the plans they had for their second child. They talked about the exact month they desired to conceive and deliver, and the plans of the vasectomy that would follow because two kids “was enough”. All I could do was walk to the water’s edge and stare off to the skyline as the tears rolled down my checks. I was jealous and bitter of their blissful ignorance. I had that once and I wanted it back.
“Don’t go looking for the reasons
Don’t go asking Jesus why
We’re not meant to know the answers
They belong to the by and by
They belong to the by and by”
Broken Halos by Chris Stapleton
breakdown and rally 