In which I talk about infertility

One year ago I started treatment for what I thought was going to be a single round of IVF. Ironically the treatment starts with the very pill that I took for so many years to prevent pregnancy. It was February in 2020 and I was in Wisconsin visiting one of my best friends for her baby shower. I traveled from North Carolina because she meant so much to me, and because I missed Wisconsin where I lived during my formative years; where I met my husband and had my first professional job and learned so much and lost so much and just LIVED so much.

*It made sense that I’d be starting IVF in Wisconsin. In many ways Madison was a catalyst or an incubator for my life.*

I remember being so excited to start my birth control pills on this trip because it symbolized the start of a process that would bear the most magical fruit: a child. I’ve always felt called to motherhood in a deep way but I thought it could be on my time. And this was the time: The start of the next chapter of my life- a chapter I happened to put off not knowing what was in store.

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In 2016, my husband, Gavin and I were married the day after one of the worst hurricanes to hit central North Carolina in a good long while: Matthew. He came in stronger than anyone expected, and the day before our wedding he was flattening trees with his winds and discharging torrents of rain water through the rose garden where we were meant to be married the next day. The minister and wedding planner stood there soaking wet telling me it would never happen while tears melded with rain on my cheeks. Our minister looked like the grim reaper in a cloak and hood.

*Gav and I posing on a fallen tree the morning of our wedding*

The next day, October 9, 2016, despite it all, the sun sparkled and the atmosphere felt so crisp and fresh, like the storm had deep-cleaned the sky. We said our vows in the rose garden. People called it a miracle that the garden had drained. It felt slightly miraculous and slightly overwhelming (it’s worth knowing I am a highlighly sensitive person that gets dialed WAY up from major weather events + life events so this was the perfect storm so to speak).

But our wedding was, overall, exploding with joy and fun and love and the sense that we overcame the hurricane. Afterwards, we felt like time was on our side and that we could wait to have a child until we had lived a bit more; settled into our careers, traveled a bit…(this, I’ve learned, is a super common theme in the infertility community: so many of us thought we had time and put off having a baby. Had we known, would we have done things differently?)

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Then one month after our little wedding miracle Trump was elected and it felt like our personal lives, along with the office of the presidency, went to shit. I’m sure that during the 4 years of Trump’s term, many amazing things happened. I just can’t recall them with the same clarity I have for the tragedies. I’m going to go through them quickly. I’m guessing many of you reading this are familiar: First Gavin’s mom Luise’s cancer returned. Then Gavin got testicular cancer. Then he was in treatment. Then his dad, John got pancreatic cancer. Then he died. Then 2 weeks later Luise died. This period in 2019 was horrible and surreal. The grief from this period is still not processed. Gavin is in remission, which I am so deeply grateful for.

We set our sight on 2020, thinking it would be the year of renewal- of life. HA! Then COVD-19 happened. All the while the political landscape was so fraught that it demanded summersaults of our psyches. Then IVF happened and it didn’t go as planned, because...why would it? Two unexplained embryo transfer failures with “perfect embryos.” One ERA test that determined my lining was receptive. One hysteroscopy that ended up with punctured lining. Another hysteroscopy that removed random scar tissue. Countless shots, meds, headaches, mood swings, and feelings of hopelessness. This is what infertility looks like for so many people. And yet…

*Our first embryo. Our fertility clinic gives you a photo of the embryo before they transfer it. It’s amazing to see.*

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Through a year of IVF treatments, I have marveled at the way many in this community remain optimistic while frequently failing to recognize my own resilience. Yes it’s harder to mine the joyful moments between 2016 and now, but if I take a moment to dig, there they are: our honeymoon in Costa Rica, the fact that we were able to freeze some sperm samples before chemo; samples that we’d later find out were our only lifeline for procreation…

We bought a home, felt meaning in our careers and with my artistic practice. We keep forging ahead, building a life that is a collection of each small moment of joy: cups of hot morning tea, cuddles with our pup Hamlin, the birth of my neice Lula, planning a summer garden…

But our joy is bound up with our privilege as well. And I’d be remiss to not acknowledge the privilege we have that even allows us to try and have a baby this way.

North Carolina does not mandate insurance to cover IVF like other states do (I miss you New York). I think to date, we have spent well over $30K out of pocket on IVF, 2 frozen embryo transfers (FETs), an ERA test, and 2 hysteroscopies. If our next 2 embryo transfers don’t work, we’ll be looking at adding another $25K onto this. It would be impossible for us to afford this if we weren’t privileged, and a lot of that is rooted in being white in this country. I am aware of this. I am grateful for the ability to pursue my dream of being a mother despite the shit we’ve endured, but I’d like to pay it forward one day and help others who cannot afford IVF. In the meanwhile, I feel I can help by spreading awareness.

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So where are we at now? I’m writing this on day 3 of the kind of headache that claws through your whole body from starting my estrogen pills heading into my 3rd FET. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing it if I didn’t have this tsunami of estrogen. I feel lonely and contemplative. It’s winter but it’s almost spring. I’m on the cusp and I am called to share my experience in the hopes that someone out there who is going through something similar will read it and feel less alone. I also share in the hopes that some of my loved ones may understand my experience on a deeper level, and that will help spread awareness of infertility. I also write to make sense of my own experience for myself. I know that the next few weeks of preparing for embryo #3 to transfer are going to be amped up: I find myself devouring Instagram accounts and blog entries from other IVF warriors. I’m looking for kernels of wisdom that will help me on my own path, but maybe I’m also just looking to feel less alone.

I am so grateful for the support of my loved ones through this, and feeling lonely is not related to them—rather it’s a symptom of infertility and the way our society has made it so secret, so taboo. So this is my attempt at breaking my own perception of taboo—of sharing my story and my experience. Of mining for the joy amidst the shit because it’s there. It’s always there even if it’s hard to see and I need to write so I can remember it. The crisp Wisconsin snow…the feeling of the cleanest freshest air after a hurricane… it’s bringing me closer to my truth and to the next chapter of my story. Stay tuned.

I also started an Instagram account to document my IVF process. If you want to follow along, it’s ivf.artist.diaries

UPDATE: The transfer worked! On St. Patricks Day, March 17 little Leo stuck around. On December 3, 2021, he was born. He is a miracle and a gift that just keeps giving and I’m cherishing every moment of being a mom.

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