It was the call we dreaded making. Just one more month, we told ourselves, counting the days on our fingers. When my partner, Jake, and I walked into the fertility clinic in January 2017, I discreetly observed the other couples in the waiting room, particularly one woman who sat alone, engrossed in her phone.
After being led into an exam room for an ultrasound, I fixated on the blank monitor as if it held the answers I sought. Following a series of tests, we returned to consult with the doctor, an elderly gentleman who pronounced “sperm” with an air of seriousness.
“I recommend IVF,” he stated flatly.
Before we had even scheduled the appointment, I had confided in Jake about my hesitations regarding IVF. Conceiving naturally felt simple, but now we were faced with a decision that required emotional and financial investment for just a chance at parenthood. I had envisioned sharing the news of our pregnancy with family, but now we had to explain why a grandchild was not on the horizon. We cried, avoided discussions, and pondered the implications of bringing a child into a world fraught with challenges.
Adoption was on the table. Jake joked about diving into costly aquariums. I even visited a psychic, questioning if this was a sign to pursue a different path, live elsewhere, or become someone entirely different. The weight of it all was overwhelming, so we decided to take a break. Perhaps in six months, I thought, after researching fertility supplements, consulting yoga instructors, revamping my diet, and trying acupuncture, we could avoid IVF altogether. Maybe I would experience that story where “they stopped trying and miraculously conceived.” But time passed, and nothing changed.
The second doctor we consulted assured us that our situation wasn’t as dire as we had believed, offering several preliminary steps. I began taking oral hormones, which plunged me into a cloud of depression. Normally a go-getter, I found myself moping on the couch for entire weekends and crying in my car. Scrolling through Instagram, I watched friend after friend share their pregnancy news while I struggled to muster a congratulatory response.
Next, we moved on to IUI (intrauterine insemination, often referred to as the turkey baster method). Our confidence was high—perhaps even bordering on arrogance—thanks to the methodical nature of the procedure, where Jake provided his sample early in the morning. A specialized team filtered out the strongest sperm, ready to be inserted directly into my cervix later that day.
I made an enormous deal out of this, taking the day off work and treating it like a sacred ritual where I WOULD CONCEIVE. Jake kept himself entertained, playing games on his phone while a nurse presented the syringe labeled with our names, reminiscent of a fine bottle of wine. I was instructed to rest for ten minutes with an egg timer ticking down. We left the clinic hand in hand, my free hand resting on my abdomen, feeling cramps but mentally coaxing them into life.
The two weeks between ovulation and your period stretch endlessly, where every minor shift in your body is misread as a hopeful sign. Even without synthetic hormones, my emotions swung wildly during this waiting period.
And yet, our story didn’t end there.
I attended my second IUI alone during a hectic workday. I kept my phone within reach of the egg timer, catching up on emails as I awaited the procedure. Upon returning home, I jumped straight into a conference call, feeling like a veteran of that initial waiting room.
During this time, I connected with friends facing similar struggles. Each infertility journey is unique, and these women truly understood my specific grief. It had been years since anyone had asked me about my menstrual cycle, and suddenly, it felt as if I was in the spotlight again. Slowly, hope began to blossom.
Then, just one week before Christmas 2018, the doctor delivered the news: I had endometriosis.
It felt like too much to bear. I received the diagnosis at work, retreating to an empty meeting room where I sobbed. I knew of endometriosis from notable cases and understood it involved significant pain, but I didn’t recognize any symptoms in myself. “Your baseline is your baseline,” a nurse explained. “Perhaps you can tolerate a high level of pain and consider it normal.”
The tricky part about endometriosis is that it often doesn’t show up on ultrasounds unless it causes other complications, which meant scheduling surgery to confirm the diagnosis and remove any problematic tissue. The doctor assured me it would be a straightforward procedure (if one can call abdominal surgery “straightforward”). Once I recovered, we could resume our attempts.
Waking from the surgery, I could only manage to tell the nurse, “My vagina bone hurts.” Jake was there when I regained consciousness, holding my hand while revealing they had found stage two endometriosis, all while clutching detailed images of my uterus. The following days were spent on the couch, bleeding out the blue dye they had used to check my fallopian tubes, reminiscent of the commercials I used to see.
Is this the end of our journey, or merely the beginning of a more challenging road? All we can do is move forward, staring at the screen of the Clear Blue test each month, patiently awaiting the moment our lives might change forever.
For more information on home insemination options, check out this post on using an at-home intracervical insemination syringe kit, which can provide helpful insights for couples exploring their options. Additionally, if you’re considering your own journey, this resource on IUI is excellent.
In summary, navigating the complexities of infertility can be overwhelming, but it’s essential to remain hopeful and informed as you explore your options.
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