As the story goes from I Samuel, Hannah couldn't have a child and "was in bitterness of soul, and prayed to the Lord, and wept sore." It hurt until she cried, and she cried until it hurt.
I’m really behind on the updates. I’ve just been so incredibly sleepy. Some time has gone by since then, but I did have my weeping Hannah moment in church. Ironically, though, it had nothing to do with me or anything I could’ve predicted.
Call it a divine revelation or or a alignment of coincidental thoughts — not that I don’t believe either is possible — but given that this site has been up and circulated, I might call it something different. Whatever it was led to an altar call for “a couple struggling to conceive.” I only recently posted positive pregnancy results, but I knew at time that I was and had told the people most proximate to me on a day-to-day basis. But it wasn’t widely known, particularly not by the person led to invite “a couple struggling to conceive” to the altar.
Don’t misunderstand; I fully believe in inspiration of the Holy Spirit to move a person to say or do something in a way that isn’t based on any prior knowledge. In many ways, I try to live my life with that kind of direction. But to have prior knowledge and to suggest it was revealed by God feels kind of like a carnival show gimmick. Already pregnant and fully aware of it, I didn’t go to the altar, but three women did.
At the moment, I realized that my struggle has not been for me nor has the blessing up to this point. It has been to tell the story of prayer for undeserved favor in an impossible situation, the unrelenting downright stupid-looking faith, and a glimpse of the promise (which is where I feel I am now) to somebod(ies) who feel even more hopeless that I have in the midst of all of that. That was my revelation that night.
I was skeptical of the way it went down, but I thought it was cool that the church, a black church in particular, devoted prayer time to infertility. Rather than let the method of how we got there permanently divert my attention, I directed my energy toward praying for them and just worshiping in general.
And I cried and cried some more, praying that God would show himself strong for those ladies as He has for me.
I’d wondered — with the postive pregnancy test and the ultrasound photos — whether I could still be considered part of the infertility struggle. I know how I felt when I’d read that someone had a successful interuterine insemination or in-vitro fertilization cycle: abandoned and even more like a failure. But my Hannah moment reminded me that the struggle to this point binds me to every woman on the same road.
Not to get too churchy on you, but it was one of my pastor’s sermons that kept me holding on to the idea that God would allow us to become parents. I don’t remember the title (and this tired mama is too lazy to go find her journal), but I do remember the scripture and its context — 2 Kings 3:18. After you prepare, which you’re already doing, you pray and you try to be patient, it’s a simple matter in the sight of the LORD. That’s the New King James Version. The Message translation reads: “This is easy for God to do.”
As hard as the infertility road is, rest with that idea in mind.
This doesn't even begin to show what nine kinds of ticked off looks like. I was here -- and for good doggone reason.
I mentioned that part of my stress during the last several weeks involved work. Aside from the initial problem that had me sitting in human resources, I got wind of the fact that my “medical condition” had come up in discussions toward the need for some type of resolution. Actually, the comment — which I received through a super-reliable source — essentially alluded to my “oversensitivity, likely a result of (my) medical condition.”
I’m a lot of things, but sensitive probably isn’t at the top of the list. Incorrect characteristic aside, I was nine kinds of ticked off. Yes, nine.
I was outraged at the lack of understanding, at the blanket application of what “undergoing infertility treatments” means. I was livid at the seeming sexism that drove the conversation. The belittling of a legitimate work concern because of my “medical condition” had me seeing red.
Post-rage — even though I’m still on the same drugs progesterone and estradiol, mind you (told you it wasn’t the drugs) — I remember that anger tends to be a secondary emotion. I’m ready to admit now that more than anything, my feelings were hurt.
Understanding the value of personal authenticity to myself and others, I try to live a fairly transparent life. Despite what my writings suggest, I’m not an open book. I’m more like a library offering. Through conversation and revelation of the type of person you are, in a way you can’t explain with words, you’re filling out an application for a library card. The way you fill out the paperwork gives me insight into what version of the book you can check out. Regardless of whether you get “Goodnight, Moon,” “Charlotte’s Web,” “Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret,” “Fight Club” or “The Sun Also Rises,” you’re still getting the real me with all my quirks.
I was a small child for my age and would get questioning looks when I’d attempt to check out library books that looked well beyond my literary capacity. Eventually, though, some librarian would decide it was OK for a 12-year-old to read John Jakes’ “North and South” and let me have the book.
That’s how I felt when I said in a meeting that the work situation needed to be in the hands of someone with the authority to deal with it. Not only was that kind of power above my pay grade, I have other things I’m focused on, I said. “For example, my husband and I are undergoing fertility treatments.” At that point, injections and ultrasounds were normal to me. I said “undergoing fertility treatments” like people say, “We’re moving” or “Our car broke down.” It is a condition of life, a normal condition of life like anything else that sucks and requires a coming to terms. After you reach the terms, it is what it is: life. And I decided the person I’d spoken to was in a position to handle that. I was wrong.
Having my life used against me felt like a sucker punch to the gut. The irony was that such a twist of words never would’ve been used to describe a woman battling her way through cancer. What is it about infertility that makes that kind of marginalization OK?
I still haven’t figured that out; I did however address what I’d heard. Despite broad deliverance from tearing people down with my words, I had not forgotten how to border on intimidating. I’m a little person; it takes a little of that sometimes. But really, it was the use of the words “illegal, if not, then unethical,” a reference to the employee handbook and prayers that began with “God, go before me …” that seemed to have an impact.
The abundance of ignorance regarding infertility perpetuates the embarrassment that many of us feel in the need to utilize advanced reproductive technology. It keeps us silent and hidden and unnecessarily distant from the support we need. To break that cycle, we’ve got one option (and I stole this from Jeff Bridges in “The Contender”). It’s simple: Don’t be embarrassed.
I'm comfortable with this scenario, but the Mr. needs something more.
I’m giving up my normal rant space to the Mr., who really wants — nay, needs — me to take a home pregnancy test. His offering is largely unedited — aside from those dreaded double spaces after each sentence. (Who still does that?) Nevertheless, despite promising ultrasounds and no evidence suggesting that there isn’t p-word outside of our cautious uncertainty, he wants to see a positive home test. Here’s why:
About three and a half years ago, I had a question I really, really wanted to ask the woman I loved. Just a few simple words, but it was a monumental question. The big question. You know the one. It was the biggest question I’d ever asked her. Eventually, after a princely sum on a ring and tickets to a dinner whose taste I still can’t remember, I got my answer.
It was the answer I’d expected, hoped for, prayed for and was relieved to get. I’d seen the signs after all: She told me she loved me, moved halfway across the country for me, she laughed at my lame jokes and allowed me to experiment on her with my cooking. And rare was the day we hadn’t spent thinking of and talking about a future together. So, yeah, the signs were there. But it was the most real when she had that ring on her finger, that word of affirmation ringing in my ear. She later teased me about my nervousness, even while admitting that she wasn’t always sure that moment would ever come. Bottom line, we didn’t know till we knew.
So here we are again, where there’s a question to be answered. This time it’s not about matrimony. It’s about maternity. It isn’t about whether she’ll take my hand. It’s about whether we’ll form a band. There’re no musicians singing in the background, and instead of a diamond ring in my hand, I’ve got a cheap piece of plastic. Ain’t nothing sexy about where this stick goes and she probably won’t walk around with it on her finger (although that would make one heck of a mood ring).
(Now that I’ve conflated my proposal and a pregnancy test, my head is filled with images of how so many other questions would be more simply resolved if it could be settled with a little pee. Does she love me? Is she laughing at me or with me? Is she really mad I ate all of the cookies? Two lines for yes, one line for no.)
So, call it peer pressure. or pee-er pressure. Or just one more time where a guy’s gotta know. Sure it might be beside the point. Even a little bit anti-climactic. But, remember that Kay’s Jewelers jingle: “Every kiss begins with Kay”? Well, every pregnancy begins with pee.
One innocent victim of my hormone-induced emotional outburst hours before the egg retrieval
So, just like a magwai, I can’t eat after midnight up until after the procedure Monday. It’s amazing how much you want something when someone says you can’t have it. I think the frustration is really just masked anxiety about whether everything will go as planned. I signed the waiver, but I’m still not worried about the more severe risks like excessive fluid buildup, stroke or death. I’m not sure about many things, but I’m most certain that God wouldn’t allow my last “meal” before meeting Him to be pineapple jelly crescent rolls, doxycycline and candied gummy pre-natal vitamins.
Speaking of God, I imagined laying out on the altar Hannah-style in church today after all because I just didn’t have the words to pray for what I want. We sang a song, “God is sovereign, holy and just and on His word we’ve got to trust. For the at the sound of His voice, the Earth became. When God speaks in your life, you won’t be the same.” Between the singing, ministering and worshiping, I felt my heart praying and the tears fell. It wasn’t a shining moment because I haven’t figured out how to cry and sing at the same time. Nevertheless, it was a moment that I felt like God and I were on the same page on this babies thing. It made worship at the next service that much easier. Even then, the tears kept flowing though. I’m sure it’s the estrogen.
According to the Mr., I’ve also been a little more aggressive in a way more characteristic of me PMS’ing. I never take it out on people — or at least not at people who can hear me — but it definitely comes out at the television, traffic, talking heads on TV. The victim on the way home from church was a squirrel pausing in the middle of the street. A squirrel! Yep, it’s got to be the drugs. And it’s expected to get way worse.
After the retrieval … (I should describe that. Using a transvaginal ultrasound to find the follicles, a doctor will guide a needle to where it’s supposed to go and extract fluid that should include an egg. If it does, the egg goes into an incubator. He or she will repeat that process until all the follicles are aspirated. The eggs will then pair with a fresh sample from the Mr., and then we wait.), I’ll start oral estrogen and, uh, non-oral progesterone. That’s supposed to not only make me sleepy but also edgy. Doesn’t that sound like fun for everybody?
I’ll keep taking the antibiotic to ward off any cooties from the procedure and wait again to hear about the number of eggs and the likely transfer date. In the meantime, at least immediately after the procedure, I’ll do nothing but feel the lovely haziness of good hospital drugs. As always, we’ll see what happens.
Monday is egg retrieval day, but hold the sparkling cider. I've had too many BFNs to get excited just yet.
“What? Huh? Wait. OK. Um, hold on. OK, I’m ready now. Go.”
That was the beginning of my conversation with the nurse today confirming that Monday will be my retrieval day, also known as the great Christmas Egg Hunt. I worried about the shots, and now I’m the subcutaneous injection queen. I worried about the drugs having no effect, and now I have 12 measurable follicles (right — 19, 17, 16, 14, 12, 12; left — 17, 15, 14, 13, 13 and 11). FYI, follicles grow 2 mm per day and are mature, meaning more likely to have mature eggs, around 18. The number of follicles does not necessarily correlate to viable eggs, and not all eggs retrieved will necessarily be fertilized. My awareness of the fact that there’s no guarantee that they’ll find enough quality eggs for fertilization basically gives me another reason to keep the sparkling cider on ice for now.
It’s not that I’m trying to be Debbie Downer; it’s just that at this point of trying to have children, I know all too well how it feels to get my hopes up and then let down with a BFN (big fat negative). After peeing on stick or two every month, you learn to take everything as it comes. I used to search for pregnancy T-shirts with funny sayings in anticipation of a positive test amid imaginary symptoms. I’d always feel dumb afterward for thinking too far ahead. Although by God, I’ve managed to accomplish many things and overcome situations that haunt people for life, my inability to get pregnant up to this point has always made me feel like something of a failure and occasionally like God wasn’t listening on this one. I kept praying but then encouraged other people to pray; though, I didn’t tell them about the struggle.
As for being a childless failure, cognitively, I know otherwise. Emotionally, though, it takes some convincing. Being happily married and struggling to have children feels like being the smart girl who isn’t considered pretty. You do a good job pretending it doesn’t matter, but then something happens as a reminder that you do. Some of my Facebook friends are fertile Myrtles; they’ve had two kids in the time I’ve been trying to have one. Stuff like that can get to you if you let it. I’ve tried not to let it, but I’m human. And maybe that was behind my annoyance with having to endure the entire in-vitro fertilization process to have the children I’ve been psychologically preparing for since 2005.
Now, here I am at the critical point — less than 36 hours from the egg retrieval but beyond the hard part — and I’m only thinking as far ahead as drug No. 6, a pre-emptive antibiotic that I’ll take orally starting in the morning.
The ominous BFN, or big fat negative. What if after all of the insemination and in-vitro fertilization attempts, this is all I see? God forbid.
Visiting friends in New York allowed my mind to veer away from that hovering in-vitro fertilization cloud — with the exception of the nightly shots. (Speaking of, it’s almost that time again.)
When we all lived in the same city, we often played the “What if …” game just as we did this weekend. What if I came home and the Mr. had a pet monkey? What if Mrs. Friend told her husband that her name was Ursula when they first met? What if one of us caught another of us cheating on the other of us? It gets deep and sometimes wild and crazy as driven by a double dose of vivid imagination. The possibilities stray so far out of anyone’s mind that it takes a while to decide on the most honest and likely answer. For example, I never thought about what food I’d eat if I could only eat that one thing the rest of my life with no consequences until I had to answer the question.
The same day we hung out, I aimlessly scrolled Twitter to find the following tweet: “No more treatments for me. Moving to childfree, kicking & screaming with a side of crying. #MovingOn” and then “For the twithearts that don’t know my story: 3IUIs, 3IVFs, 1DEIVF, 2FET: all BFN. I truly gave it my all. #MovingOn #Infertility.”
For those who don’t know the lingo, the woman I follow with the Twitter handle @IVFandme has endured:
three intrauterine inseminations,
three in-vitro fertilization attempts,
one in-vitro fertilization attempt using donated eggs and
two frozen embryo transfers
… all leading to a BFN, infamously known in infertility circles as a big fat negative pregnancy test result. That’s a whole pharmacy of drugs, a lot of little tubes going you know where and God knows how many, ahem, “private viewings” to go through without a baby to show for it. I wanted to kick something on her behalf, and I couldn’t help thinking: What if that were me?
I don’t think people understand that when you get to the point of fertility treatments, you’ve already tried everything you know to do and that everything else really is a crapshoot. It’s not a sure thing. So, although I look fine with the frequent transvaginal ultrasounds, multiple drugs, blood draws and injections that not only expose my belly fat to the Mr. but turn it red so he can see it better, know that I’m anxious, I’m nervous, I’m occasionally pessimistic and sometimes downright depressed. Fortunately, the worst of it never lingers. But like the darkside, it’s always there. When I explain that I’m “undergoing fertility treatments,” congratulations are not in order. This (group of attempts that may go on for years until I’m tired or bankrupt) feels like my last ditch effort, and I don’t want to jinx it by celebrating what could be a lost cause and maybe a waste of money. “We’ll see what happens” is about all I can politely muster with that weight behind every fertility-related move.
Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Friend, I’m breaking the rules and sticking by my non-answer: I don’t know what I’d do if it were me.
As for @IVFandme, my thoughts are with you. With a remote understanding of your individual suckage, I know at least part of the road you traveled to this point and send virtual hugs your way. It ain’t much, but tonight’s shots are dedicated to you. Ouch and sugar honey iced tea.
Bag lady, you gon' miss your bus dragging all dem drugs like that. That's just for the holiday weekend.
I got the go-ahead Wednesday to start my plethora of potions in the build-a-baby kit.
You’ll have to pardon my irreverence. In addition to my normal last-minute packing, I also had to prepare and pack all my drugs for the next several days to get me through Thanksgiving weekend. Making sure I had the right amount of needles, vials, ice packs for the refrigerated stuff and necessary alcohol wipes and gauzes added an hour to my ritual. I’m exhausted, but sitting under this hooded hair dryer is the first time I’ve sat still since I left work. And I have to stop my mind from reeling; it’s been on 90 mph since my ultrasound and blood work this morning.
The point was to make sure my reproductive system responded well to the birth control pills by essentially taking a nap. I didn’t know I was worried about the possibility of the cycle being canceled until worry came up during our workplace Bible study. Boo, hiss. I hate when God calls me out like that. I relaxed a bit after that, but my relief was only temporary even after the nurse called to say the meds were a go. It was like I was suddenly eligible to take a test I hadn’t studied for. I really did mean to brush up on the shot and medicine-mixing lessons from the first in-vitro appointment last week. Just like college, there was so much information that I’d resigned myself to figuring it out on my own time. Tick, tock, tick, tock — lo and behold, the test is tomorrow!
Instead of worrying, though, I’ll sing this song until my iPod changes to Thanksgiving songs:
“It’s only a test you’re going through.
It’s gonna be over real soon.
Keep the faith; don’t give up
For it’s only a test!”
My Brown Eggs 