Infertility exiles you to an invisible island. You're standing in a
crowd, surrounded by family, friends, and co-workers, but you feel
alone, isolated. The problem you face is not one people openly discuss.
There are plenty of misconceptions about infertility, including the
belief that it isn't a medical condition. This inaccuracy finds its way
into comments by well-meaning friends who say, "Just relax and you'll
get pregnant." No one would ever tell a person with a disease that
relaxation alone is the cure.
There's
a powerful truth in C.S. Lewis' statement. I want people facing
infertility to read my book and know they're not alone. My book's
dedicated to them because, like Hatty and John in INCONCEIVABLE!, they
deserve a happy ending of their own choosing and on their terms. This
book's also for those who know someone going through infertility. I hope
the story gives you a glimpse into what it's like to experience this
kind of struggle. Infertility often unfolds in the midst of a love story
between two people. So, I decided my book needed to focus on the
relationship between two people and how the unexpected heartbreak of
infertility interrupts their happily ever after. Using the perspective
of a royal couple gave me a compelling framework in which to tell the
infertility story.
My Infertility Story
When Patrick and I decided we wanted to have a baby, it was such an exciting
time in our lives. We had been married for several years; we had jobs we
loved, a house with two empty bedrooms, and hearts full of love for our
child-to-be. Even way back in high school, we had dreamed about what it
would be like if we got married and had kids. So, there was a lot of
expectation, hope, and excitement built into our decision to try to get
pregnant.
Fast
forward ten months. We hadn't had any luck, so I went to see my doctor
who just happened to be very pregnant. She assured me that my youth
(mid-20's) and overall good health would allow me to get pregnant. All I
needed was time. She said for someone my age, the odds were
overwhelmingly in my favor that I'd be pregnant in the next couple of
months. That visit calmed my worries for a time. However, when another
six months passed and there wasn't any hint of double lines on the
pregnancy tests, I went to see a different OB/GYN.
Because it had
been over a year since we started trying, he suggested in utero
insemination (IUI). This was after he ran the usual battery of fertility
tests and found no problems. An IUI is a relatively easy and affordable
procedure (not covered by insurance), so we agreed. We did two or three
of those and had no success. Next, he suggested I have a laparoscopy,
outpatient surgery, during which he could try to get a visual on what
might be causing us problems. I'd never been under general anesthesia,
and that worried me. However, my desire to have a child was extremely
strong, so I decided to do it. The surgery didn't offer us any
definitive answers, nor did it allow us to get pregnant.
Keep in
mind that during all this anxious waiting, testing, and monthly
failures, we carried on with our lives. Very few people knew about the
anxiety and anguish our fertility problems caused us. Like so many
people who face infertility, we kept it private and held onto our pain
in silence. That began to change when we found two other couples through
our church who also were going through infertility. When we connected
with them, it was like we stumbled into an oasis in the middle of our
desert. They could relate to how we felt, the medical tests, and the
uncertainty about what to try next. Though I wouldn't wish infertility
on anyone, it was such a relief to find out we weren't the only ones
suffering through this process.
We
decided to make one final push to get pregnant. One of the world's most
renowned fertility specialists had a clinic three and a half hours from
us. We signed up with him to do one IVF cycle. It was expensive, not
covered by insurance, and we had to drive seven hours round trip for
every appointment. Once the cycle started, we made the drive multiple
times a week for monitoring. In addition, IVF requires women to give
themselves multiple shots each day to suppress their body's normal cycle
and override it with medication.
After all the injections, my
body only produced three follicles. It was three times better than none,
so we were happy. Outpatient surgery allowed the doctor to remove the
follicles from my ovaries. Another doctor performed the difficult task
of inserting the sperm directly into each egg, minimizing the chance of
failure. This tedious work paid off and we had three textbook-perfect
embryos. Patrick even named them.
The
doctor transferred the embryos into my body, a procedure for which I
stayed awake, using relaxation techniques the entire time. Afterward, we
stopped at a local pizza joint to celebrate. Two weeks later, I finally
had a positive pregnancy test! Everything looked great, and all I had
to do was go back to my regular OB/GYN for monitoring.
And that's when
things went downhill.
The Death of a Dream
About six and a half weeks into the pregnancy, the
ultrasound tech didn't find a heartbeat. Then, a few days later, I had a
miscarriage. For me, it was the lowest moment in our journey. After an
initial cry, I went numb. We even talked to a counselor because I
thought I needed to do more wailing and screaming. She assured me it was
perfectly appropriate and normal to feel empty, unable to produce
anymore tears. Every cell in my body felt barren.
The IVF failure
was the turning point for us to talk more seriously about adoption. We
realized what was most important to us: having a child, not a pregnancy.
I still grieved the loss of biological children, but I was ready to
move forward with adoption. Little did we know that each adoption would
come to fruition only after we overcame significant difficulties. Still,
infertility taught us to persevere, and we did. Three times.
So, I also dedicate my book to the three children who gave me an extraordinary gift: they made me a mother.
