I was going to wait to post this until National Infertility Awareness Week, which is coming up at the end of next month. But, seeing as my mind needs a bit of a distraction (we are waiting on our Day 6 Update, which now won't happen until Monday - cue sad face), I'm just diving right in. One of my biggest (and most helpful) coping mechanisms during this process has been humor. There's absolutely nothing funny about infertility, but how you choose to respond to it can make a world of difference. I have found that as time has worn on, the best way for me to survive has been finding humor where I can. So, here is Part 1 of my series: 1. When you meet with the fertility specialist the first time:
2. How it feels after talking to the fertility specialist:
3. How you want to respond to people when they ask when you're having children as you're trying to process all of the information you have been given on fertility treatment:
4. When people try to give you supplement/nutritional advice (hint... if it's out there, we have probably already tried it. We don't need to know your cousin's best friend's sister got pregnant after taking fish oil and standing on her head for 30 minutes every day):
5. This is you. Every. Single. Day.
6. And how you feel if you do make it through the day without crying:
7. You have your therapist on speed dial:
8. When someone tells you you're not pregnant because "It's God's Will" or "Maybe you're not meant to be parents":
9. When someone who has never been through infertility tells you to "Just relax":
10. When people are talking about pregnancies or babies around you:
I'll keep adding to the series this weekend. In the meantime, fellow infertility warriors, know that we are here for you if you need support or prayers.
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).
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."
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
Christmas. The time of year we celebrate the birth of a baby that was (1) not planned and (2) born of a virgin. In other words, an infertile woman's yearly WTF, God?!? Before you get offended by this, hear me out. Here's a woman who wasn't planning on being pregnant, yet was CHOSEN by GOD HIMSELF to carry our Christ and Savior. Yet here we are... practically BEGGING God to bless us with a child... and getting seemingly nowhere. Every Christmas up until this year, that's how I felt. I halfway jokingly begrudged Christmas because God blessed Mary with a baby and here I am, still waiting for him to answer our prayers.
Here's a fun flashback photo for you. This was from a Madrigal Dinner when I was in High School. Babies were the furthest thing from my mind. The song I sang as my solo that year? "Breath of Heaven". Easily one of my all time favorite Christmas songs.
It's such a beautiful song. If you're not familiar with it, I recommend you listen to it. If you don't care to listen to it or can't at this moment, this is a song from Mary's perspective, asking God WHY he chose her, asking for strength, guidance, and the ability to understand His decision.
Tonight, on my way home from a wonderful evening with the little and some great friends of ours, this song came on the radio. We almost always have the Christian radio station on in the car. The little heard the intro music and said, "This is my favorite song." So, I turned it up. We both sang along.
The words have always moved me. But tonight, they struck me me differently. I viewed Mary's story in a way than I have not in the past.
You see, in previous years this song has stuck with me because I put myself in Mary's shoes... trying to imagine how frightening it must have been to be given this task. To carry Christ's child. To be obedient to God. Feeling isolated, scared, and alone. Yet she continued to ask God to help hold her together, to be near her.
I fought back tears because I hate crying in front of the little. And, in this situation, I didn't want to have to explain why I was crying. We did not tell her about the failed cycle and don't plan to do so.
Tonight I realized that my journey, while different, is similar to Mary's. Minus the whole being pregnant bit.
Like Mary, I feel isolated, scared, and alone. Not because I don't have incredible support (I do), but because it's just the nature of infertility. I'm asking God why - Mary asked God why. Mary was frightened - I am frightened. I am weary - Mary was weary. Mary wondered what she has done - I wonder what I have done.
I could go on and on. Please recognize and know that not everyone, myself included, feels convicted in Christ throughout their journey through infertility. There are times I'm still questioning God, when I'm angry with him, when I shake my fist and stomp my feet and practically scream to the heavens that this is UNFAIR. But in beautiful moments like tonight, I realize that God has a mysterious way of working in our lives.
What if Mary hadn't been obedient to God? What if she said, "You know what? Forget this... thanks, but no thanks".
How many times have we felt this way? I'm not just talking to those battling infertility. How many times have we questions God's motives? Guilty here. But, Mary and Joseph - even if at times they felt terrified and perhaps even reluctant - obeyed God's will and plan. They trusted in Him. And because they did, Christ came to this earth and died for our sins.
And tonight, I feel called to share that conviction I felt. I don't have to understand God's plan right now. It may be months or even year's before I do. During that time, I may become a lost soul, exhausted from feeling like He is constantly telling me no. Frustrated that my tears and heartache and prayers fall on deaf ears.
I'm not saying my infertility is anywhere near comparable to Christ's story. To the miraculous gift God gave, to the sacrifices that Mary and Joseph made. What I'm trying to say is... tonight I understand.
I'm going to say something that my Christian friends may not agree with. If you're struggling and you're mad at God and feel angry and unheard and resentful and like your faith has dropped tenfold... it's ok. The last thing you need during your time of grief is more grief and guilt. But know that God is still there. He's waiting for you to come back. He wants you to come back. But I'm not here to push you to that point. As someone who has been there, it took ME on MY TERMS to get where I'm at today on my faith journey.
If you're even slightly open to this... I encourage you to read it, ok? Just a little prayer I have for you that I hope will bring you comfort and maybe nudge you a little bit closer to Christ during your period of doubt.
Heavenly Father, tonight she hurts. Her heart aches. For weeks now, she has walked past aisles of toys intended for children, past the racks of "Baby's First Christmas" onesies and ornaments and stockings. She has seen the children in the mall waiting with awe and wonder to see Santa and the excited parents snapping pictures and adjusting hair bows and tiny bow ties. She has shopped for her nieces and nephews. And as she does, she hold back tears. Her heart breaks with each giggle she hears from the children at the school program she went to for a family member. Each exclamation from a child yelling, "MOMMY!" is like a dagger in her heart. She yearns for the day she will be buying a "Baby's First Christmas" stocking and is fearful she will never get to experience this for herself. She is broken. So broken she isn't even sure how to turn to You.
Tonight I ask that you tug on her heartstrings. That you send her a small, significant message meant just for her to reminder her that you're still here, waiting anxiously for her to return. Validate her pain, but remind her that Faith, Hope, Peace, Love and the birth of our Savior are the reasons we celebrate this time of year and that those things will remain steadfast.
You are the God of miracles. I pray that one day, your miracles - whatever form they may take - will be clear to those women who are feeling so broken this Christmas.
So... weird lady on the blogosphere... what's with these pictures??? I'll explain at the end. But first... a little back story.
It happened so slowly I didn't fully recognize it. In fact, looking back, it has a lot of frightening similarities to an abusive relationship I was in years ago. What started out as a medical diagnosis morphed into something just as frightening - a very real threat to my marriage. Branson and I met in 2010. At the time, we were just two people who knew each other through mutual friends. After two years of him pursuing me (and me being blind to it), I finally wised up and realized that THIS MAN is someone special. That he was what my heart had been looking for. We were head over heels in love. Being together was easy - we come from similar upbringings, have the same taste in most music and television, both have a passion for performing, and he puts up with my quirky personality and... let's just call them Kristy-isms. I can't pinpoint a date or time it happened. But it did. We started growing apart. I didn't want to talk to him. I knew I was isolating myself from my friends and family, but I didn't realize how much I was isolating myself from my husband. I would let things build up - emotions, fears, anger, frustration. Then, for some stupid reason like a dirty sock or something being out of place, I would completely spaz out and then EVERYTHING came pouring out of me like white hot lava. Tears I had been holding back or hiding, anger I had been bottling up. And not just anger - an anger I couldn't really place. I didn't want to be touched, I didn't want to talk about my feelings when he asked, I didn't want to be seen. I was no longer in a relationship with my husband. Yes, I still loved him and he still loved me. Yes, we still had great times together every now and then. But for the most part, we were two people living in the same house going through the motions. No, my husband and I were no longer in a relationship, because I didn't feel like a wife. I allowed infertility to reduce me to a shell of a human being. Key word there - I. ME. I allowed it to define me, to define us, and to define our marriage. It wasn't until I wrote the blog posts about the Journey Pendant and the Open Letter to the Children I Never Met that the floodgates opened and I had a major "aha" moment. It felt like we were US again. Because finally I put into words EXACTLY how I was feeling - and, more importantly, I recognized my husband's feelings. Infertility, failed cycles, miscarriages, other family tragedies... these can ALL take a huge toll on a marriage. It did on ours, and I thought our marriage was very solid. (It is, but at times it didn't feel like it). Infertility takes an emotional and financial toll on couples. And I'm lucky - both of us were on the same page about what we wanted. Not all couples are. I recall being in a seminar once where the husband seemed less than thrilled to be there. I'll never forget the look on the woman's face - crushed, heartbroken, confused, frustrated - I could see it all. And my heart hurt for her. Before you read what I have to say next... here's a disclaimer. I'm not a marriage expert by any means. I'm not trained in psychology or counseling or anything along those lines. These are just pieces of advice I have learned (or had read previously and have now officially confirmed to be scientific fact) Tips for Keeping Your Marriage Strong Through Infertility: 1. Communicate. This is true for any relationship or any marriage. But it's even more critical when going through infertility. Talk about your feelings in real time. Don't let them stay stuffed down. Ultimately it will lead to a fight over something stupid and trivial that on a normal day wouldn't bother you one bit. 2. Understand why your husband won't talk to you about it. Men are fixers. They see us broken. Or maybe they look at us like a Lego set. But one of the key pieces is missing. And that is frustrating to them. Recognize that men and women grieve differently, and just because your man doesn't appear to be sad does not mean that he isn't... (he is). 3. Set aside time for you. Once upon a time, you were acting like giggling junior high kids on a movie date. Adulting is no fun. And infertility means you're not only adulting, but you're now adulting with additional stress and major financial decisions. Whether it's cooking for each other once a month, going to a special place, having a picnic... make it about YOU. Not the infertility. Not any other family members. YOU and your SPOUSE. Because without the two of you being solid, you aren't going to make it. 4. Know there ARE going to be fights and stressful periods and IT'S OK! Start to learn your triggers and learn when you need to take time to cool down so you don't say something you regret (GUILTY!). Maybe have a safe word (they're not just for the bedroom!). Bonus points if you make it phallic (i.e. Banana, Cucumber...) 5. Decide in the BEGINNING how far you are willing to go with treatment. Obviously both of your feelings may change. For example, I was CONVINCED if the first cycle failed I would die of heartbreak. Well, here I am, two failed cycles later, and I'm still alive. It's expensive and you both need to be on the same page about how much you're willing to spend, what you're willing to give up, etc. There is so much to take into consideration - that's a whole blog post in itself. You both have to want it and both have to be on board with whatever decision is made. If you're not, it will cause extra friction in an already static situation (see what I did there? #sciencejoke) 6. Start something new together. A new tradition. A new hobby. Something that's about the couple, not about the end of the journey. 7. Remember WHY you're together. I married my husband because he's loaded... with funny jokes. You obviously are together for a reason. And while yes, a baby is your dream, your desire, your hope... that beautiful rainbow at the end of your storm would not be possible without the TWO of you. 8. If you are really struggling, seek counseling. It's important for BOTH of you to have someone to talk to individually, whether it's a professional or a close friend. Counseling helps get things out in the open where it needs to be. And even if you're not struggling, it's still a great idea. Emotions run high, especially when on fertility medications. Not all couples make it. But I hope and I pray that if you're reading this, you do and you will. I nearly let infertility destroy my marriage and other relationships in my life. Don't let infertility or your infertility diagnosis become your new partner. It does not define you or your relationship. Allow it instead to strengthen your relationship (easier said than done). So... here's the weird lady on the blogosphere finally answering "what's with the pictures". I found out a friend of mine from High School was doing mini-holiday sessions in my hometown the weekend we were going to be there for my nephew's birthday. I struggled with this a little because I have a beautiful bonus daughter, and I felt horrible for not including her, but at the same time, I wanted something of just US. Sort of an engagement session 2.0. US - reconnecting, remembering, celebrating why we love each other and having that captured. Lately, our focus has been on pretty much everything BUT us - the two people who stood in front of God, family and friends and promised to love and care for each other until death do us part. So, while it wasn't an easy decision, we decided that this session was about us - no distractions. We had family photos done last year, and I imagine that will be an every other year occurrence. These pictures have additional special meaning to me for a couple of reasons. First, it was about us. Branson and Kristy. It wasn't about our infertility. It was about the couple that fell in love and got married more than 3 years ago. We were taking time to reconnect and celebrate our love for each other as husband and wife. Second, these pictures were taken in my hometown. Where I grew up. A park I had picnics and other events with my family. Our engagement and wedding photos and even our family session with the little and Louie were taken in the Peoria area. Thank you so much to Kyle and his assistant at Forte Photography & Cinema for capturing these moments. I looked very closely at some of them and just looking at them I can feel the emotion I felt that day and still feel. The happiness. The love. The excitement. And even some of the sadness. Keep fighting. Keep fighting for your dream of growing your family. But most importantly, keep fighting for your love for each other. Love, Kristy
I can't help but be in complete awe watching our embryos. Just a glimpse of life as it begins... and in our case, ends.
Twelve beautiful chances at life... twelve reasons to be thankful... twelve potential lives, some gone within hours.
What you're looking at is our Embryoscope. Something our clinic, MCRM (Missouri Center for Reproductive Medicine) offers for an additional cost to their patients.
Our embryos never left the incubator. You're seeing a time-lapsed video of the many photos they were able to take of our beautiful babies from the point of fertilization all the way to Day 5.
I am so grateful we chose to do the Embryoscope program. I would recommend this program to anyone going through IVF, however, it's not a program many clinics offer.
Why did we chose to do Embryoscope?
1. We wanted to see our babies. Our first cycle, we never saw a picture. I think this made it harder to grieve when the cycle failed.
2. We knew a failed cycle was a possibility. We thought the Embryoscope program would allow us to have a better idea (well, the doctors) should things go wrong, where they went wrong.
3. If it succeeded, we thought it would be an amazing piece of their life to have. IVF is a part of the baby's journey. Part of our journey. To have it captured in this way... incredible isn't a strong enough word.
4. It's safer for the embryos. Without this program, they would need to be taken out of the incubator at certain points to monitor growth. While the environment is sterile and safe, any extra precautions we could take were going to.
I feel a sense of closure I don't think I would have had if we hadn't done this program. Life is precious and beautiful. This video proves it.
I wish I had more poignant things to say this evening, but I don't. All I have are these videos. I pride myself on speaking from the heart, and lately my heart feels pretty plugged up. So I'm not going to sit here and pretend I have something earth-shatteringly beautiful to say when I don't.
I just wanted to share our babies with you. Call me crazy for calling them our babies, that's ok. But, they are our babies and always will be.
Here's a look at the three that made it the furthest. It's still crazy to me that we are able to see this - literally life beginning before our eyes.
I still believe miracles happen. Ours is just still in the making.
