I’ve already been through infertility, and specifically IVF, and now I’m doing it again. But this time it’s during a pandemic—which makes the process so very different.
The first time, after more than a year of trying to conceive, testing, and procedures, I was diagnosed with unexplained infertility in 2018. After four failed IUIs, an egg retrieval, a failed fresh embryo transfer, preimplantation genetic screening (PGS), and finally, a successful frozen embryo transfer (FET), I became pregnant with my daughter. Naively, I assumed that there was a decent-to-good chance that, in the future, I might be able to naturally get pregnant.
Suffice it to say, my hopes were sorely dashed when my husband and I began trying to conceive our second child. Negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test left me discouraged, every period left me resentful, and I knew in my heart that we’d be looking toward IVF again to grow our family.
Although this wasn’t my first rodeo, and I was well aware that a million things can change and impact and reschedule fertility treatment cycles, the idea of not knowing when we’d be able to resume things really gutted me.
Our fertility clinic has a firm rule about waiting 12 months postpartum before beginning a new cycle, so begrudgingly, we scheduled our testing cycle and baseline appointments for April 2020. In March, we received a call that due to COVID-19, all new procedures, treatment cycles, and clients were being canceled—indefinitely. Our clinic was following the guidelines from the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) published March 17, which included suspending the initiation of anything new, strongly considering canceling scheduled embryo transfers, suspending elective testing or procedures, and only seeing clients in person who were in-cycle and in need of urgent support.
I was devastated. Although this wasn’t my first rodeo, and I was well aware that a million things can change and impact and reschedule fertility treatment cycles, the idea of not knowing when we’d be able to resume things really gutted me. I was discouraged about my ideal timeline, I was discouraged for my clients (working as an infertility doula, I was supporting several families at this time who were planning for or just beginning IVF), and I was overwhelmed at the reality and severity of COVID-19.
As time passed, we became aware collectively that the pandemic would absolutely not be disappearing as fast as it arrived, and at a point, it became time to evaluate how to move forward—for fertility clinics and patients and families alike. When we got the call in early June that we could begin to reschedule our appointments, we felt a combination of gratitude and anxiety. Our clinic had put several policies in place to help decrease the spread of COVID-19 and was following the ASRM guidelines as they were updated.
And while the details are familiar to me—I’m aware of every test, procedure, injection, question, and response I will encounter during the IVF process—everything looks and feels a little different this time around.
Although we were so hopeful that our timeline could resume, we were full of questions too. Was this the right choice for our family to pursue at this time after all? Was going to the clinic, and trying to become pregnant again, going to be too high of an exposure risk to COVID-19?
My husband and I sat down and talked through all of the things we were thinking and feeling, and all of the questions that we had. While we are extremely lucky to already have a child, we are working with another variable alongside my fertility: I live with Crohn’s disease, and to safely carry an embryo through pregnancy, my disease ideally should be in remission. While I am currently in remission, I have no idea how long that window will last. And if it were to pass, and I were to flare up again with active disease before we’re able to reschedule our fertility treatments, our delay would be a lot longer than just due to COVID-19.
Together, we decided that we were ready to work toward our next IVF cycle. And while the details are familiar to me—I’m aware of every test, procedure, injection, question, and response I will encounter during the IVF process—everything looks and feels a little different this time around.
Currently, partners are not allowed at any appointments. Appointments that don’t require a test or a procedure are done virtually instead of in person. There’s no hugging your doctor or your nurse (if you know, you know). The ways that friends and family can support you during this time are much more limited and require creativity and patience.
And of course, the experience of going to appointments feels very different. After baseline testing, my FET preparation begins, except this time I’m going alone, without my husband, to the clinic. I arrive and trade my fabric mask for a hospital-issued disposable one. I place my hands under the automatic sensor for hand sanitizer, and I stand at the hospital’s reception desk to tell them where I’m headed. I use a tissue to press the elevator button and use that same tissue to open the door of my clinic’s office. I swipe again for hand sanitizer, and give the receptionist—behind a pane of plexiglass—my name, date of birth, doctor, and appointment information. She asks me a series of questions about my exposure to COVID-19 since my last appointment and uses a contactless thermometer to take my temperature.
I’m told I’ll be called in just a minute, and I know from experience that this minute is shorter than it used to be. This time, I’ll barely have time to put away my parking stub and check my phone before my name is called. When I walk to the lab where my blood will be drawn by a very friendly tech in a mask, they’ll also be wearing a face shield, and gloves. Then, they’ll point down the hall, where I’ll be accompanied by a nurse to a room where I’m asked to take off everything from the waist down, but definitely not my mask.
But infertility in a pandemic is our reality—and I know that we’re not truly alone.
Pre-pandemic, my husband and I spent a lot of time waiting in this very waiting room. Although other individuals and couples never made eye contact with us, we always found solace and comfort in each other. This time, everyone is alone, wearing masks and sitting multiple chairs apart. As usual, nobody is making eye contact. This time, I can’t even smile at the others. This feels sad to me. The fertility office waiting room, which already left so much to be desired, now feels like this strange and silent landing zone, intensifying every appointment that I must attend alone. But infertility in a pandemic is our reality—and I know that we’re not truly alone. Even though we’re required to be physically separate from each other, and from our partners, these other women and I are all in it together, and I take some comfort in that. I hope that they do too.
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