Why You Won't Hear My Say "It Just Takes One"

You've gone through the preliminary bloodwork.  You know your AMH and FSH levels.  You know way more about the reproductive system than you ever thought you would.  High school health class?  Please.  College anatomy class?  Give me a break.  Neither of those equipped you with the knowledge you have now - months or years into your battle with infertility.

You have a container full of empty syringes and used needles from stims.  Your belly feels bloated, your mood is unpredictable, you're constantly uncomfortable, and you're counting down the days until the big egg retrieval.

Trigger shot day arrives and your stomach now has butterflies that somehow manage to fit in with the bloat.  Forget pants.  In fact, in one of your hormonal rages, you may consider burning any and all pants you own.

The day of egg retrieval comes.  You prepare for anesthesia.  You say a quick prayer that when you wake up, you have as many eggs as they counted follicles.  

Post-retrieval, you wake up in a daze - a bit confused and groggy.  Luckily, you have someone there not only to drive you home, but to take on the information given to you by the nurse or doctor.  And, if you're SUPER fortunate, your companion has recorded you while you come off of your anesthesia.  You hear the numbers... and later you try to process them because when you were told, your brain was foggy.

You're given the number of eggs retrieved and how many of those were mature.  You hope for a decent number.  Here's where things start getting difficult.

Maybe you were given a low number.  Immediately some level of panic sets in.  Maybe you were given a high number.  This may provide some relief to you, but not without at least a little bit of worry in the back of your mind.  And maybe the number you got was somewhere in-between.  Doesn't matter how many they tell you they retrieved, you feel a mix of excitement and anxiety.  Because this is just the first of several reports you will get.

The next day you hold your phone like a teenage girl waiting for a phone call from the cute boy in algebra.  You don't even go to the bathroom without it.  Each time it buzzes or rings, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Finally the clinic calls.  You have a new set of numbers.  Now you learn how many of your eggs fertilized.  In virtually all cases (I have yet to hear of a case where all eggs fertilized), your new set of numbers is smaller.  Your heart drops to your stomach with each report.  Number of eggs that fertilized.  Number that fertilized normally.  And finally, what you have to work with - for now.

And then you wait.  You wait until Day 3, in some cases Day 5, to hear your next number.  Again... your heart shatters as you learn that the number of viable embryos has once again dropped.  

In some cases, there are plenty that made it.  In others, there are just a handful - maybe 5 or so.  Or, maybe you have just one or two left.  And... sadly, there are cases where no embryos made it.  You have none left.  And it's over.  It's the end of this cycle and you feel lost.

Our first cycle we had 13 eggs retrieved.  I was hoping this meant we would have 6 embryos make it.  On my call after retrieval, I was told 6 were mature and one fertilized normally.  One.  But, I was assured, "all it takes is one".  Which is true.

During our second cycle, we had 17 eggs retrieved, 14 were mature, and two fertilized normally.  All it takes is one.

But both times... I was left with no viable embryos.  All three arrested on Day 5.  And just like that, it was over.

They say, "It just takes one".  It's true - you CAN get just one and have a successful cycle and pregnancy.  But - as I have experienced - just because you have one or even 10 fertilize does not mean you'll end up having one when it comes time to transfer.  And this is why I refuse to say "All it takes is one".

While "It just takes one" is meant to be words of hope and encouragement, I feel like it takes away from the loss that is experienced.  The heart-wrenching, gut-punching news you get - all within a week - of your numbers going down... and down... and down.  To me, it makes it feel as though I'm not allowed to be worried - that I'm not allowed to or supposed to grieve the loss of the ones that didn't make it.  Or the panicked feeling that come Day 5, I'll be left with no embryos.

Even if you make it to transfer... even if you make it to pregnancy... even if you have your baby on your first try using IVF or any other form of ART (assisted reproductive therapy)... none of that negates the losses you felt.  You're allowed to grieve those losses.  There's no shame in feeling sad about having only 3 embryos when you started with 10.  Just because you made it further than the woman who sat next to you in the RE's office doesn't mean that you have any less of a right to feel loss.

You won't hear me say, "It just takes one" when you share your report.  Instead, you'll hear this... "I'm sorry, I know how hard it is to hear those numbers go down... I will pray for you and that you get good news in the coming days."  Because I know the devastation and hurt.  I know the panic.  And I know that "It just takes one" brings no comfort to someone who has failed multiple cycles.

So... here's my prayer for you:

I pray God will bring peace to your heart.  That He will ease your anxieties.  I pray that you will have your answers sooner rather than later.  I pray that you have good news on the other end of the phone.  And if the news is not what you hoped?  I pray that you give yourself permission to grieve - no matter what.  Whether you're told you lost just two embryos or 10, I pray that you know that the tears you shed will be caught by a God that has not forgotten you (even though it feels like it).

Love,

Kristy
 

Ditch the Life Timeline

  

     

     A friend of mine posted this on Facebook the other day.  I read through it and it struck me, but was busy and moved on with my day.  However, the thought behind this has been gnawing at me and I can't seem to shake it.  Usually that means it's time for a blog post.

     I remember when I was younger, I was convinced I would die before I was 16.  I don't know why, but it was this weird feeling I had, likely a result of my untreated depression at the time. Obviously, I lived past 16.

     I thought I would be married by age 22.  I thought I would have my first child by age 25.  These were the arbitrary ages I gave myself to complete these life "goals".  When 22 passed and I was nowhere near being married, I was depressed.  I thought... there must be something wrong with me.

     There wasn't.  Well, there is - I have my flaws, my quirks, my "isms".  But who doesn't?  I was 27 when I got married.  And it was worth the wait.  Had I married any of my previous boyfriends or love interests, I can, without blinking an eye, say I would be absolutely miserable. 

     I thought I we would have our first child by age 30.  But 28 and 29 came and went.  And 30 got here with no plans at the time for doing another IVF cycle, so I knew 30 wouldn't be it.  I'll be 31 next month.

     Why do we set ourselves up like this?  By setting deadlines for things that are so... out of our control?  It's not like making a to-do list for chores around the house.  It's not completing a task at work by a certain date.  These are HUGE, life-altering events.  These aren't events we really have much control over.  

     So why on earth are we picking ages and maybe even exact dates to complete these milestones?

     I have wonderful friends who are single.  Some who choose that lifestyle because it fits them.  I have amazing friends who are struggling with infertility or have even chosen to live without children.  Do I think any less of them for not "making it" to some arbitrary deadline?  Absolutely not.  Just the opposite, really.

     I applaud those who chose to live their lives according to what they want.  Those who don't care what society says is the "norm" and decide that his or her individual happiness and calling is more important that conformity.  I commend those who deal with the barrage of people criticizing them for choosing to not have children - whether it's by choice or because of infertility. 

     And those of us who are battling infertility?  Who are in the thick of it?  We are not failures.  We haven't let anyone down by not having a baby by a certain date.  We are no less of women because we aren't there yet.  You're no less of a woman because you haven't had your second or third child.  (Yes - I fully believe secondary infertility is just as emotionally damaging as primary.)

     As I wrote that last paragraph, I felt like a bit of a hypocrite.  Because there are days I feel like a failure.  Days I cry apologetically to my husband, telling him I'm sorry I haven't been able to give him a child.  Fearfully clinging to the nightmare that I will never have a child of my own.  That I will never feel a kick inside my belly, I will never hear my baby's heartbeat, will never get to introduce my child to his or her family.

     Have you ever heard the story about the monkey trying to get the treat out of the jar?  The fist is so balled up it cannot clear the opening.  That's what this timeline is.  These dates we set for ourselves.  We cling onto them and then feel stuck.  We feel trapped.  We feel hopeless.  

     It's time to let go.  It's time to let go of that timeline, because is it really ours to decide?  In a way, it is... but ultimately, it's not.  It's up to a higher power.  Something bigger than us.  It's frustrating to hear.  It's frustrating to say.  It's frustrating to think.  But I can't help at this point to just accept it as the truth.

     I never want to push people into leaving their comfort zones until they are ready, but I do like to encourage it.  Tonight I'm encouraging you to let go of that fist.  That fist you have around your timeline you set for yourself.  Let go and instead, take my hand.  Take my hand and let's move FORWARD together.  Let's enjoy life outside of that timeline.  Small things like buying yourself flowers for no reason.  Picking out a new set of pens.  Going dancing with friends.  Getting your nails done.

     You are worth much more than what you've accomplished or will accomplish.  YOU - just you - as a human being are worthwhile, loved, and special as you are.  Who you are - your individual talents, passions, how you treat others - those are the things that matter.  These are things that people will remember about you no matter what ends up (or when it ends up happening) on that "timeline".

    Life isn't a competition with others.  It's a competition with yourself.  To keep moving and doing better each day.  To keep going despite your setbacks.  To take time and say, "I'm not ok right now, but I will be... this, too, shall pass".

    Strength isn't always a huge feat.  Sometimes it's just laying down at night and saying, "I made it."

     Love, 

     Kristy

 

Grieving Abstract Losses

 
I lost count of how many times I have started this post then deleted literally everything I wrote.  I don't like to write just for the sake of writing.  If the words aren't just right and the message isn't on my heart in a way that is meaningful, I can't pull the trigger on it.

Ever since our first failed cycle, I have struggled with processing loss.  In reality, this difficulty knowing how to properly grieve can really be traced back to my childhood.  I was adopted, so I never really "knew" my biological parents.  I lost them, but I never knew them.  So I guess in a way, my entire life has been spent trying to figure out how to grieve an abstract loss.

I'm sure there's some scientific or psychological definition for abstract loss or grief, but quite honestly if I research it myself I think I'd drive myself crazier than I already feel.  Instead, I prefer to put it in my own words, on my own terms.  Maybe my definition matches yours - maybe it won't - and that's ok.

Abstract loss... that gut feeling you have that cuts into every fiber of your soul.  Feeling like your heart is being ripped into shreds, the backs of your eyes burning as you fight to hold back tears.  You have all of the physical symptoms of indescribable sadness... yet your brain has trouble pin-pointing why you're feeling the way you do.  Your body aches and your brain hurts from the natural desire for it to KNOW and to PROCESS what is happening to you.  But you can't.  Because you can't exactly picture what you lost.  At least not in a way that is black and white, right in front of you.  Not in a way where you can say, "YES - I see it... this is what is making me sad, and here is how I fix it."

I couldn't do that with the loss of my biological parents.  I lost the two people that, as a baby, I thought were supposed to be there for me.  Poof.  They were gone.  I was too young to process what happened to me.  Instead, as an adult, more than 30 years later, I sometimes find myself reeling from the pain of losing them.  It's as if they died - but they didn't.  All I knew - and know - is they're gone.  Don't get me wrong - I am grateful for the life I had growing up - a life I wouldn't have if it weren't for my biological parents leaving the picture.  It doesn't negate the deep-rooted sense of abandonment and mistrust the loss of my biological parents has left seared into my heart. 

And so it is with the loss of our embryos.  I never knew them.  I never met them.  I never carried them inside of me.  But I know they existed.  I prepared for them.  We prepared for them.  Not just physically, but mentally as well.

We picked out names.  We had ideas for the nursery.  I actually bought a bracelet for the little that said "Big Sister" anticipating that I would soon get to give it to her.  I bought a giant bag of miniature Tootsie Pops to give to my husband to celebrate.

I walked past aisles of baby items, mentally making notes of what I would put on our registry.  I looked lovingly at the "Baby's First" items wondering which "Baby's First" would happen - well, first.  Would it be Easter?  Halloween?  Christmas?  I thought about buying maternity clothes.  I pictured the happy looks and tears and hugs that would happen when we announced to our families that we were having a baby.  Honestly?  I think this can be said for anyone who is longing for a pregnancy - whether reproductive therapy is needed or not.

It has been almost two years since our first failed IVF cycle.  And I'm still struggling with how to grieve that loss.  In a way, I'm getting there, chipping away little by little.  But there's still a part of my brain that hasn't quite caught up to my heart - or vice versa. 

Abstract loss doesn't have to be this extreme.  I bet at some point or another you have gone through an abstract loss.

- Not getting the job you had hoped.

- Not getting the role you auditioned for.

- Not getting the wedding proposal you were hoping for this year.

- Not winning the championship with your sports team.

- Not winning the pageant.

All of these things were events that in your mind - at some point - you envisioned as a full-fledged reality.

And when that reality didn't pan out?  It hurt.  It hurt like hell.

So what advice do I have for those experience an abstract loss?

It's pretty hard to give solid advice while I'm still mucking through it, but I do have a few things that come to mind - some told to me by others that took several months for me to fully believe.

1.  You have a right to grieve.  Just because you can't see or feel your loss right in front of you does not mean you aren't allowed to hurt.  Just because you can't put words to it, you still lost something.  And when we lose something, we feel broken.

2.  What you have lost is your dream.  Your plans.  Your hopes.  Just because it wasn't an item or something you had in your possession doesn't mean what you experience isn't a loss.  It is.

3.  Give yourself time.  Not only does your heart need healing, but your brain's ability to process your loss is hindered by your brain already being busy trying to figure out WHAT you lost.  Be patient with yourself.  Understand that the waves you feel are normal, and that it's normal to take steps backward and even get sucked right back into the whirlwind of confusion.

4.  You may never quite understand your loss and therefore never quite recover completely.  And that's ok.  It is extremely difficult to completely heal from an abstract loss when a piece of your heart is just stuck in utter confusion.

I hope what I wrote makes sense.  Part of the struggle to get this far without completely erasing what I wrote was that I'm still going through this myself - grieving the abstract, the unseen.  So I didn't really feel equip to offer much to you.

This video clip is courtesy of my friends at The Lavin Production Company (check them on out Facebook here).  They shot and edited a very candid interview with us.  This clip is brief, but is my reaction to our first failed IVF Cycle.

Please, as always, feel free to reach out to us if you need prayers or just need to talk.  Don't forget we are on Facebook.  As always, you are welcome to share our story.  Sometimes, just reading the stories of others going through the same thing has been the biggest inspiration for me.  I just hope I can provide that for others.

Love,

Kristy