WTH

When I was 14, I was having some health problems (female-specific in nature) and consequently put through a lot of tests that were pretty scary at the time, and after which was rewarded with a scary-sounding diagnosis and a pronouncement that I would have difficulty having children, if I ever did at all. Pretty heavy weight to carry for a young teenager whose highest ambition of adulthood was to raise a family.

When I was dating Matt and things got serious, I put it all out on the table for him: my fertility was uncertain, might cost a lot of money, and I may never produce children. I remember sitting on the couch in his apartment, holding his hand, fully prepared for him to suddenly remember somewhere he needed to be or tell me he needed to think for awhile. . . but he just smiled and said, "So we'd adopt." And that was that. It was a very good marker for what it would be like to be married to this kind and honorable man.

We married. We tried. A few months into it, I felt like the ultimate failure in a Mormon bride. Church was sometimes unbearable. All around me were messages and evidences that my potential for joy, fulfillment, and true feminine virtue would forever be wrapped up in my ability- or inability, as it were- to conceive. This fallacy, alive and well in the hearts of "fertiles" and "infertiles" alike, Mormon and otherwise, is another topic that I could fill a book with. For now, suffice it to say that it was mostly a burden of my own making, but not entirely.

Somewhere in the second year of our marriage, at the ripe old age of 21, I dutifully went back to the doctor who diagnosed me in the first place. I learned quickly what many infertile women come to know: you don't get much help from your garden-variety OB/GYN. That's not a statement on their capabilities; they simply don't have the time to deal with the physical, emotional, and clinical demands of infertility on top of their regular work. So I looked in the phone book, found the only Reproductive Endocrinologist (RE) in Boise at the time, and made an appointment. And thus began a long descent into the world of fertility treatments.

I learned a whole new acronym-laden language for the low low price of tens of thousands of dollars over the next years. The RE did a battery of tests. Matt had already passed the SA, so it was definitely female factor (TMI? Sorry.). So he tested my E2, P4, T3 or T4, FT, and lots of other things, abbreviated and otherwise. Because of the diagnosis of PCOS, we first tried a few rounds of clomiphene accompanied by lots of u/s's. Then we graduated to IUI and I became well-acquainted with needles. We never intended to go as far as IVF, and the story of how we ended up there is one that needs its own entry. More tests, like HSG, more us's, then ET and a long recovery from a nasty case of OHHS. But in the end, IVF was the magic bullet. . . and that's how I started a love-hate relationship with PIO and weekly E2 and P4 blood tests. The dreaded 2ww. And then the long wait for the HCG tests. . . and the wonderful phone call to tell us that it was successful. Followed by 7 weeks more of daily PIO shots and biweekly estrogen shots. (With my second pregnancy, there was VTS, eventually necessitating some sadder acronyms I don't like to think about and certainly don't want to type.) Follow?

It worked twice. Then we got a sweet little red-headed surprise that was never supposed to happen. And now, 3+ years later, that familiar pull that says our family isn't complete. Actually, that pull started with a vengeance more than a year ago. It became evident that our freebie was most likely a one-time shot. I was distraught, and the level of distress surprised even me, since we have these three beautiful daughters that I was never sure I'd have. But the ache was there; no less painful than the first time around.

So we've done it again. After some weeks of meds and shots and tests and preparation, last Wednesday I had my third FET- frozen embryo transfer- and now I'm in that most awful of limbos: the 2ww (two-week wait, where you sit and stress and analyze every physical feeling you have until the doctor's blood test. And actually, at "my" clinic, it's a 10-day wait where, if you get positive results, you're pronounced "chemically pregnant", until another test 10 days later to confirm that HCG levels are doubling like they should in a healthy pregnancy, and then an OB ultrasound a few weeks later to see how the little guy(s) might be doing. Aren't you glad you asked?) This time the process has been physically harder, and emotionally not quite as hard in some ways, and hard in different ways than ever before. And we wait. My hips are bruised and sore, the shots' side effects cruelly mimic pregnancy symptoms which we over-analyze nevertheless, time crawls. . . and we wait. And OMH, I'm going C-R-A-Z-Y.