Though sometimes mistaken for Teddy Roosevelt’s quote, it was rhythm and blues singer Teddy Pendergrass who said, “Life didn’t promise to be wonderful.”
Some of you may know, and a few of you have inquired, that we’ve been trying to conceive for some time now (about sixteen months) without success. It’s been a miserable, heart-wrenching process with an emotional and physical toll markedly higher than anticipated.
Infertility is a nightmare. There are no answers, and for the most part, it’s a waiting game. “Wait and see.” “Try some more.” “It’s only been a year.” Yes, when we started railing against our doctors, it had only been a year – but a year without the medication that helps me get out of bed in the morning. A year of a very sedentary lifestyle, filled with arguments, disappointments, and trampled hopes through chemical pregnancy after chemical pregnancy. A year in which my physical health deteriorated more than ever in the past, and a year in which there was not a glimmer of success.
We turned to a whole host of tests, as all infertile couples do. Invasive procedures, daily bloodwork, a litany of medical histories, poking and prodding, guessing at what may be the issue. Was it too much caffeine? Okay, nope, not the issue. Was it not enough swimmers? Okay, nope, not the issue. Was it not ovulating? Okay, nope, not the issue. Nothing, it seems, is the issue. And, unfortunately, that’s true for more infertile couples than one could count.
I wonder sometimes if folks know what infertility does a person. Beyond the struggles of living without the medication I need to be healthy, it brought on a whole new self-esteem complex of being an inadequate woman. Here I was – healthy enough to bear children, yet seemingly barren. There are eggs, and hormones, and whatever else I need to become a mother, yet none of them want much to do with fulfilling their own mission. And to boot, I have a husband that clearly wants children, and more clearly deserves that happiness.
So – we turn to treatments and the nightmare that added hormones become. It didn’t seem so bad at first – just a few hot flashes. Then, as time went on, the hot flashes became so overwhelming that sleep was (and is) impossible. Yet, the additional hormones make me exhausted, ever in need of naps. I can’t eat more than two bites of food without feeling full, despite the pangs of hunger I feel all day. I’m a starving fat person with no recourse. I’m extremely forgetful, overwhelmed easily, and cannot concentrate on anything at all for more than five minutes. All this is just the tip of the iceberg.
I have allergies. I have sinus problems. No, the word “problems” does not begin to describe it. Horrific, painful sinus headaches that don’t ebb away without an overloaded dose of Sudafed. Except – you can’t take Sudafed when you’re trying to get pregnant. So, when my sinuses flare up, as they did two weeks ago, I became a non-eating, non-sleeping, exhausted, hungry, ridiculously hot one minute and freezing the next, crazy person alternating hot and cold compresses on my head. It was completely debilitating for days, and each and every doctor reminded me that if we wanted the IUI to work, we had better stay away from the decongestants.
And, of course, the IUI did not work – despite the doctor’s office staff’s high hopes with five good-size follicles and excellent motility. A whole day of brooding, crying, blaming, guilting, and getting angry, depressed, overwhelmed, and filled with hopelessness. Lather, rinse, repeat for September.
I realize that much of this post is negative, which is exactly how I’m feeling these days. This inability to do much more than deal with our infertility is overwhelming my psyche and physical self. And, we have such few tries left that I can barely stomach an ounce of optimism.
Friends have asked why we’re planning on not trying after this fall. I’ll explain it here as I have a million times before (though I’m not sure even now it will not satiate those folks who think I should just suck it up and try, try again). Simply put, I don’t want to give birth without my husband there. I don’t quite think that some of you good folks understand. We have a timeframe when Keith will be in port, and beyond that, we’re clueless for the next four years.
We already have to give up so much of the joyful pregnancy moments. There will be no baby shower, no photos of friends holding “the belly,” no one wanting to take us out for tea and talk baby names. They’ll be no painting a nursery, or picking out items for a registry. They’ll be no family members or friends to stand in when Keith can’t go to lamaze. And, should we get pregnant and Keith is out to sea during the birth, it’ll be me driving myself to the hospital, and me leaving alone after an alone childbirth. Unfortunately (or rather fortunately for them), my friends and family all have full-time employment. They can’t whisk themselves away for a months on the off-chance they happen to be visiting when I go into labor.
I don’t know if it’s pathetic, but it’s true. I don’t want to do this alone. I will already have enough alone time while in Hawaii; this journey I want someone holding my hand. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, and I actually think it’d instead be pathetic for folks to blame me for that.
What if there are complications? Twins run in my family, and when my aunt was pregnant, she was ordered on general bed-rest for the last two months. Tell me, how do I clean, cook, shop, drive, and take care of two dogs by myself all from the confines of a mattress? I’m not saying it’s likely, or that bed rest even has enough science to show it affects outcomes in any positive or negative way, but if it’s doctor-ordered, and we’ve been fighting for this baby, there can’t be objections. Yet, alone, there can’t be compliance either.
I don’t want to be in the hospital without any visitors. To drive myself home. To be alone in the days that follow. I’m not superwoman. I don’t envy single mothers. If I didn’t have the wonderful amazing man that Keith is, I wouldn’t even consider having children. He is my boat, and in a sea of uncertainty, I’m not leaving port without him.
On the other end of the spectrum, I wonder how much of this is worth it? Sure, you hear the many stories from folks who were successful in overcoming fertility when they hold their child in their arms. “It was all worth it!” they say. Just as I’m sure Olympians agree that the sacrifices they make for their sport is all worth it. I wonder though whether or not the failed Olympians feel the same way. Is it “all worth it” if you try, and never succeed?
We have friends whose marriages ended because of infertility and the stress it puts on a relationship. We have friends who nearly declared bankruptcy to afford the treatments. We have friends that spent so many years trying to get pregnant, they lost themselves along the way. And from those friends, they’ve told me it wasn’t worth it. So – who do you believe? I suppose it all depends how the dice fall at the end of the game.
Keith and I have a great life. We laugh and smile more than most couples I know. We both have flaws, but forgiveness comes easy under our roof. We fight, for sure – we fight! But it only makes us better at resolving conflict, and finding more reasons to be in love and smile all over again. We are strong, stronger now than ever before. Yet, the infertility is taking its toll. For me, I can feel the day-to-day happiness slowly leaking through the cracks – through the sleepless nights, and teary-eyed mornings after BFNs. I can feel the doubt more than ever, and the curiosity as to whether this is “all worth it.”
Several friends have suggested going straight to the holy grail – IVF. With the highest success rates among any infertility treatment, it seems logical. Yet, our insurance doesn’t cover it and it’s a $12,000 gamble for a couple who aren’t big gamblers. It’s a lot of money and will mean more stress for me back at work full-time without the mental health meds that I need to manage stress and depression. It’s a big down payment when you don’t even know if the house is on the market. For us, we know that adoption is around the same cost – even less after some of the tax subsidies – and there’s a guaranteed child on the other end. No hormone treatments, no uncertainty. A long process to be sure, but one that guarantees a result at the end of the day, as long as we don’t expect a perfectly healthy white baby boy.
Of course, adoption wouldn’t be an option until we’re back on land in 2017. But by that point, I’ll be 36 and the thought of resuming infertility treatments makes me want to take this nausea to the next level. I’m fairly certain once the next few tries are done, the effort is done. And, this is not just my decision. It may surprise some of you to know that it’s at my husband’s suggestion, that we enjoy our life instead of living so miserably for years. He married me, and not my endlessly incompetent eggs and uterus. The stress this all puts on him is real as well. He doesn’t want his child to spend his or her first days or months without ever meeting him. And there’s no getting around the fact that we have no friends and no family in Hawaii to be there in his stead.
Lately, I can’t help but finding my teary-eyed thoughts wondering when the world gained the right to judge our decisions, to call out our strengths as a weakness, and to nearly call me a bad mother before motherhood just because I don’t want to do this alone. Just because I don’t want to gamble a pot of money that we don’t have on an unlikely outcome. Just because we cherish our relationship more than the unknown. We’ve had to spend over a year coming to grips with infertility – with the knowledge that it’s more likely we’ll never have children than we will. Over a year watching some friends get pregnant and, no matter how much we love them, finding it hard to be happy. Over a year watching other friends’ marriages dissipate, and miscarriages cause incredible hardship.
There are happy endings in life – this I know. I married the knight in shining armor. I know what it is to win something so wonderful, but I also know what it is to lose the same. We’ll keep trying for a few more months, until we move. Then, we’ll move on with our life and make future decisions when they should be made – in the future.
In the meantime, I personally can’t help but beg of your kindness, understanding, and compassion. For those who know what we’re going through, there need be no words. But for those who have never walked in our shoes, please refrain from those harsh judgments – from any judgments at all. Life didn’t promise to be wonderful, though it is. Any more wonderful is just icing on the cake, and sometimes I prefer muffins.
`O ka hali`a aloha i hiki mai 