Ignorance is a funny thing. (And just to be clear, I don’t mean funny as in haha.) Before the MR. and I walked into the first fertility clinic, I said with complete confidence and total conviction that IVF was not for me, and that if we got to that point, then we would simply adopt (as though that would be a piece of cake in comparison). Because I wasn’t going to put all those drugs in my body. No way, no how, no thank you. I really and truly believed in what I was saying at the time, but looking back now on five rounds of artificial insemination and three rounds of IVF, I think it’s safe to say that I was full of shit. Or ignorance. Same same.
The rollercoaster of infertility gains fierce momentum with each passing period that screams, “NO BABY FOR YOU.” Before I’d have a chance to take stock and catch my breath, I’d find myself signing up to ride it again and again and again. And each time, my doctors would add more drugs or new drugs or stronger drugs. Toward the end, my belly looked like a pincushion and my hormones were so jacked up that I was in a perpetual state of the worst PMS you can imagine for a looooong time. Kinda like this.
Adding insult to injury are the damn pregnancy tests. My personal favorite (and I say that with serious sarcasm) was the one with the sad face/smiley face indicator. It’s like the test was mocking me: “Sorry, but this just isn’t your month. Here’s a cute sad smiley face to commiserate with you.” Even better is the one that boldly states Not Pregnant. I remember thinking as I sat on the toilet staring at those two frustrating words, “Yea, I get it already. Why not put it in neon lights and add a little sing-a-long jingle, just to really drive the point home?” After lamenting about the tests to a good friend, she told me how one month she’d truly thought she was pregnant, until while peeing on the pregnancy test she got her period. We laughed—until we cried.
After the last round of IVF failed in the worst possible way, I can safely say that I wanted to try again about as much as I wanted to run straight into a concrete wall with 5-foot spikes sticking out of it. After three years of trying to conceive, the MR. and I were utterly defeated and deflated. We’d picked ourselves up and dusted ourselves off so many times. I knew I couldn’t do it again. I was done. The uterus was closed.
What I’ve come to realize is that every woman dealing with infertility has her breaking point. And it’s different for each of us. There is a couple in our adoption workshop that went through six rounds of IVF. Six f-ing rounds. But I get it. Even though I couldn’t have done it. I get it. It’s sort of like playing the slots in Vegas. You keep throwing dollar after dollar at it because maybe, just maybe, you’ll hit the jackpot on the next spin. And then the next thing you know, you've lost $80 in 15 minutes. (I speak from experience.)
More than anything, what feeds the dream is that some people do hit the IVF jackpot—they get pregnant. Sometimes they hit the double jackpot and get twins (kinda like a 2-for-1), which makes it that much harder to walk away. But, like Kenny Rogers said, “You gotta know when to fold ‘em.”
I’ve found peace with the idea that I’m not going to be pregnant. And I have to tell you, in all honesty, I’m so completely okay with it. I’m 39 years old and I really want to just get this mommy show on the road already. Because you see, I don’t think giving birth makes someone a better mom. As one woman in our adoption workshop so eloquently put it: “For me, mother is a verb. Not a noun.”
I daydream about being in the hospital room with our birth mom when our child is born. It brings tears to my eyes to know that I'll be a part of the process, a witness to the miracle of life and to my child's first moments in the world. Just like any other mom.
