It was a call we dreaded making. Just one more month, we told ourselves, counting the days on our fingers.
In January 2017, when my partner Alex and I arrived at the fertility clinic, I couldn’t help but scrutinize the other couples in the waiting room, particularly a woman engrossed in her phone. Shortly after, I was ushered into an exam room for an ultrasound, staring at a blank monitor that felt more like a screen on a show than a medical tool. After a series of tests, we met with the doctor, a seasoned professional who pronounced “sperm” with a weight that felt heavy in the air.
“I recommend IVF,” he said.
Before we even scheduled the appointment, I had confided in Alex my uncertainty about proceeding with IVF. It felt different now that we had to actively choose and financially commit to the mere possibility of becoming parents. For months, I had envisioned how I would share the news of our pregnancy with our families, but now we had to explain that a grandchild was not on the way. Tears were shed, the topic was avoided, and we pondered the implications of bringing a child into an increasingly perilous world.
We explored adoption. Alex joked about investing in expensive aquariums as an alternative. I even visited a psychic to seek clarity on my path—was this a sign to redirect my life? It all felt overwhelming, so we decided to pause. I thought, perhaps in six months, after researching fertility supplements, consulting yoga instructors, changing my diet, and trying acupuncture, we might not need IVF. Maybe we’d fit the narrative of, “And then they stopped trying and magically conceived!” But as time passed, nothing changed.
At our second consultation, the doctor reassured us that our situation was not as dire as we had feared; there were steps we could take first. I began taking oral hormones, which plunged me into a deep depression. Typically a high-energy, type A individual, I found myself spending entire weekends on the couch, crying in my car. Scrolling through Instagram, I felt the weight of my friends’ pregnancy announcements, forcing myself to type, “Omg congratulations!!!!” as if it were a rehearsed line.
We moved on to IUI (intrauterine insemination, or what some refer to as the turkey baster method). Our confidence bordered on arrogance due to the precision of the procedure. Alex provided his sample early in the morning, and a specialized team prepared the best sperm for insertion later that day. I made a big production out of it, taking the day off work and treating it like a sacred ritual. Alex sat in the corner, engrossed in a game on his phone, while a nurse handed me the syringe, labeled with our names like a fine wine. I was instructed to rest for ten minutes afterward, and as we left the clinic hand in hand, my free hand rested on my belly, feeling cramps but mentally urging them toward life.
The two-week wait between ovulation and the arrival of my period felt eternal, with each minor change in my body interpreted as a potential sign of pregnancy. This waiting game was emotionally taxing, even without the added pressure of synthetic hormones.
The following IUI was a solitary experience, squeezed into my hectic workday. I kept my phone close to the egg timer, catching up on emails as I awaited the next step. I had morphed into the cynical figure I had once observed in that initial waiting room.
During this tumultuous time, I connected with friends who were navigating their own infertility journeys. Each story was unique, like snowflakes, and these women recognized the depth of my despair. It was a surreal experience—never before had so many people seemed invested in whether I had gotten my period. Hope began to flicker again.
Then, just a week before Christmas in 2018, the doctor delivered the news: I had endometriosis.
The weight of this revelation was crushing. I learned of my condition while at work and found solace in an empty meeting room, where I let my tears flow. I had heard of endometriosis through high-profile cases but had thought I was exempt from its symptoms. “Your baseline is your baseline,” a nurse told me. “Perhaps you just have a high threshold for pain and consider it normal.”
The strange truth about endometriosis is that it often doesn’t show up on ultrasounds unless it causes additional complications, prompting the need for surgery to confirm the diagnosis and clear it out. The doctor assured me this would be a simple fix (if you can consider surgery simple). Once I recovered, we could resume our attempts.
Waking from surgery, I could only express, “My vagina bone hurts,” to the nurse who hovered nearby. Alex entered the room, hand in hand with me, sharing that they had discovered stage two endometriosis, while holding detailed images of my uterus. The next few days were spent recovering on the couch, bleeding out the blue dye used in my fallopian tubes, reminiscent of commercials.
Is this the end of our journey, or merely the beginning of a more challenging road? All we can do is move forward, staring at the Clear Blue test each month, patiently waiting for the moment our lives could change forever.
Resources for Your Journey
For those embarking on a similar journey, you can learn more about home insemination options here. If you’re interested in understanding the IVF process, this resource here offers excellent insight. For guidance on ovulation induction and IVF in the San Francisco Bay Area, check out this resource.
Summary
The journey of infertility can be a challenging and emotional rollercoaster, marked by hope and despair. From initial consultations with doctors to the heart-wrenching waiting periods and the discovery of conditions like endometriosis, each step creates a unique narrative. The two-week wait, in particular, tests patience and resilience as couples navigate their paths toward parenthood.