I went through multiple cycles of in vitro fertilization (IVF) in order to have my two children, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, physically, emotionally, and financially.
The first time was hard in its own right: There were the daily injections, meant to cause multiple eggs to grow in my ovaries. When my doctor determined it to be the right time, those eggs were carefully removed in a process called egg retrieval, and they were then fertilized. The now embryo was placed in my uterus in a procedure known as an embryo transfer, with the hope it would continue to develop. This process could take anywhere from three to five days, and it was an emotional roller coaster of waiting after the embryo transfer to find out whether the cycle had been successful and whether I was pregnant. There was the thousands of dollars that we put in, the loan we took out against my husband’s retirement. The times we lived paycheck to paycheck and said no to dinners out and to Christmas presents for our families.
Still, my husband and I would talk about it late at night—about doing it all over again, enduring the difficulties over again, all for the chance of a sibling.
The second time was just as difficult but in a different way. For starters, I already had a child. A beautiful little girl who was three and a half and loved Daniel Tiger and Frozen and wanted a little sister. We had three frozen embryos waiting for us at the clinic left from the first time, so attempting another child was basically a given. Still, my husband and I would talk about it late at night—about doing it all over again, enduring the difficulties over again, all for the chance of a sibling.
But this time around, it felt different. When I went to my appointments, I wasn’t feeling the ache in my chest and the unrelenting desire for a baby like I had the first time. My girl was at home with her dad, playing with Duplos. She was my miracle, and yet here I was, going back again, hoping for just one more. We wanted another baby, a sibling for our daughter, but if it didn’t work out, we knew given time, we’d be OK. In some ways it felt the pressure was off, because we already were successful once. While no IVF cycle is ever easy, we did at least know what to expect.
I thought I was doing pretty well. My first frozen embryo transfer in this round ended in an early miscarriage, meaning that while I saw two lines on the home pregnancy test, I lost the baby before my blood test in the clinic a week later. I worked through the grief and anger of that failed transfer with the help of my therapist. We were now facing the transfer of our last two frozen embryos, the cycle where it would either work and we would have a second baby, or it wouldn’t and we would navigate life with one.
When I had those moments of doubt and fear that this wouldn’t work, or worse, would end in the loss of my baby, I could only spend time there for a few moments.
Leading up to the actual transfer, my daughter kept me preoccupied with preschool, playdates, tantrums, and plenty of hugs and kisses. She knew nothing of our plans for a little brother or sister for her. Even after we did the procedure again and I came home with two embryos hopefully snuggling into my uterus for the next nine months, we knew we wouldn’t tell her until much later.
She “helped” my husband give my nightly progesterone injections, a process that involved a big needle with thick progesterone-in-oil that my husband would give me in my glute. On those unfortunate occasions where he’d plunge the needle in at the wrong angle or in the precise place where a nerve was present, I would bury my face into the pillow, breathing deeply when I wanted to cry out. My daughter, eyes wide, watching my face (and the needle) with deep fascination would ask enthusiastically, “Did that hurt, Mama?”
When I had those moments of doubt and fear that this wouldn’t work, or worse, would end in the loss of my baby, I could only spend time there for a few moments. There was always a bath to give, a cup of milk to pour, toys to pick up and put away. I would hold my girl, only now instead of feeling simply the immense gratitude that comes with parenting after infertility, there were the thoughts: Could I give her a sibling? Could I love a second child as much as my first? What if it didn’t work?
Luckily, one embryo stuck around and I did become pregnant and had my second child. I also knew just how easily the opposite could have occurred.
I wasn’t feeling the same desperation as I did originally, but I realized I was feeling something new: guilt. Guilt that we already had one child and were trying for another when so many others couldn’t even have one. Guilt that I so badly wanted this to work when I already had gotten all I hoped for. Guilt that I wanted a second child just as much as I’d wanted my first.
Going through IVF after already having a baby can be a strange experience. Luckily, one embryo stuck around and I did become pregnant and had my second child. I also knew just how easily the opposite could have occurred.
I’m thankful I had my daughter to distract me during the fertility treatments; after all, it was hard to get in the thick of the anxiety and fear when I was knee deep in Barbies. Just as when it happened the first time, infertility changed me and made me a different person than the one I would have been if I hadn’t gone through these struggles. It showed me I can do hard things, and that beauty can be found in the darkest places.