The Pain of Childlessness

“Well,” the doctor said as she looked intently at her computer screen, “your numbers aren’t…dismal.  I mean, there is a chance that you could get pregnant if you get help.  I recommend you go see a fertility specialist as soon as possible.”

The consoling hand gesture.  The look of pity on her face.  I didn’t see it coming.  My husband and I had only been married six months.  I had just asked the doctor to check my egg reserve numbers as a precaution.  I was expecting to hear a speech about how everything looked normal, and not to worry because getting pregnant takes an average of two years, and I’m still young…  But, no.  In that one instant, my dreams of becoming a mother were essentially shattered.  Years of believing that once I found a decent guy to marry, that large happy family I’d always wanted would soon follow.  Years of thinking that God was just teaching me patience, and that He would reward me with a house full of kids if I waited for His perfect timing.  Years of thinking one day I might be able to stop parenting everyone else’s kids and parent my own.  Years of hoping and praying and dreaming.  Shattered.

After whisking away the tears that came to my eyes, I drove home and promptly made an appointment to see a fertility specialist.  It was going to be fine.  I had friends who went through this, and they all ended up with children.  There was still hope.  I looked up the statistics.  I was only thirty-three years old.  Chances were good that, with help, I could still be a mom.

But nobody and nothing could prepare me for the effects fertility treatment would have on my body, my emotions, my self-worth, or my marriage.  I had no idea.  No matter how much I read about it online or how much I knew about the procedures based on my friends’ experiences, I just wasn’t prepared. 

It started with tests.  Lots of tests.  Tests that couldn’t be done on the same day or in the same place, so I had to take off multiple days of work and travel to several different clinics around town.  First came blood tests.  Relatively painless, though I got a little sick watching vial after vial after vial be filled with blood and placed nonchalantly on the counter.  Next came the hysterosalpingogram to make sure my fallopian tubes were clear.  This involved getting naked, lying on a giant metal slab, having dye injected in places just shouldn’t be injected, an x-ray, and then lots and lots of cramping.  It was a ton of fun.  Then, my favorite, the sonohysterogram.  This one involved a team of doctors-in-training looking on and taking notes.  In this procedure, the doctor filled my uterus with saline, like a balloon, and then inserted a probe to observe the uterine wall.  Unfortunately, she had trouble finding my cervix.  There was a lot of yanking and clamping and grunting.  And when she was done, there was a lot of blood.  Again, just a ton of fun. 

All tests came back clear.  Apparently, there was nothing wrong with me other than the fact that the initial blood test indicated I had the number of eggs one would expect to see in a fifty-five year old woman.  Back to square one.

Now, all these tests took time.  Time to schedule, time to undergo, time to receive results.  And, all the while, my eggs were dying…in droves, apparently.  Once I was finally able to meet with the doctor to make a plan, I was told that despite the fact that they really believed I should jump straight into In Vitro Fertilization (IVF), my insurance company would not pay for an IVF procedure until I had completed six rounds of other treatments.  And I needed to get some documentation from the insurance company that they would indeed cover those since I was so young.  Weeks of back and forth on the phone, explaining to the insurance company that though I wasn’t yet thirty-five, the doctors had indicated that I did need these procedures in order to get pregnant.  Lots of tears.  Lots of phone calls.  In the meantime, I turned thirty-four, and more of my eggs were dying…

Eventually, the insurance company managed to communicate with the doctor’s office, and we started our first cycle of Intrauterine Insemination (IUI).  Though not as invasive as IVF, it was nonetheless unpleasant.  Oral hormones to keep eggs from growing, and then others later to encourage them to grow.  An injection to stimulate ovulation (it took me thirty minutes to work up to that first self-injection).  Ovulation tests every day and night as we waited for the perfect timing. 

But the office visits were the thing I wasn’t expecting.  Every two days leading up to the procedure, I had to go in for a blood test and vaginal ultrasound.  That meant that every two days, I was missing the first two hours of school and had to spend the rest of the day trying to get the kids back on track.  That meant that every two days, I had a doctor and several onlookers staring between my legs while shoving a probe into my nether-region to see how well my follicles were developing.  That meant that every two days, my husband was pretty much guaranteed an “Are you kidding?” or “Seriously?” response to the suggestive backrub.  I mean, let’s face it, being probed and stared at by strangers doesn’t exactly put you into the mood for intimacy when you get home.  And this was, of course, not even taking the hormones into consideration.  It seems a little illogical to pump a woman full of hormones that make her grouchy and irritable and then send her home to her husband who thinks this is baby-making season.  But what do I know?

Of course, all of this would be totally worth it, and maybe even forgotten, if we could ever hear the words, “You’re pregnant!”  But, alas, never any good news.  Just month after month of negative pregnancy tests.  Each time I peed on that stick, my hopes were raised.  I tried to keep it real.  Tried not to let my heart start beating faster.  But it never worked.  Every single time I counted the minutes, paced, and finally peeked with high hopes, believing I would see that second line.  Nothing.  And every time those hopes got dashed, I felt a little worse about myself.  A little more like a failure.  A little more like my life was pretty much worthless.

And so many other things in life become more painful when you are feeling this way.  Mother’s Day?  Always a difficult day being a stepmom, but then to have to go to church and celebrate all the happy, smiling moms with babies in their arms the day after you find out your second IUI cycle was unsuccessful?  It was like a dagger in my heart.  And office baby showers?  Why not just kick me while I am down?  How was I supposed to feel happy watching other women’s bellies grow while mine remained empty and barren?  What facial expression could I use to hide my absolute loathing when the pregnant mom let it slip that she got pregnant by mistake and she “just wasn’t ready for another one”?  How was I supposed to react to well-meaning Believers telling me to read the Bible and find hope in the fact that all the barren women in the Bible eventually bore children – implying that if I just had a little more faith, I would too.  Thanks.  That really helps ease the pain.  Yeah, my misery was a little selfish and petty, but unless you have walked the path of childlessness, you just don’t know.  You can’t know how painful it is.  I certainly didn’t before I took this journey.

It was at this time that my husband decided to change jobs.  And by this, I mean, quit his job and become unemployed - no longer on the insurance that would cover infertility treatments.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  A big part of me was relieved.  After only six months of fertility treatment, I was ready to quit.  I honestly don’t know how some women endure it – or afford it – year after year after year.  But the rest of me was devastated.  It was possible I had used up all my chances at becoming a mom, and I was just going to have to live with that.

As it turned out, however, my husband’s new insurance also covered infertility treatment.  They would even count the procedures I had already completed, and I could finally move on to IVF!  My husband and I had doubts about going through with IVF.  There are a lot of ethical issues associated with IVF, especially as related to what happens to unused embryos, but after considering all options and discussing things with our doctor, we felt confident that our embryos would be safe, and we decided to proceed. 

At this point, I realized that the treatments I had endured earlier had nothing on IVF.  This was serious business.  The medications and injections I needed to take came in the mail, and I kid you not, they filled a box the size of a small refrigerator.  It was more than a little overwhelming.  As I pulled out bags and boxes of needles, bottles, alcohol swabs, and gadgets for mixing solutions, I started to wonder just what I had gotten myself into.  The cycle started with pills, and then slowly added the injections.  First one in the morning and one at night.  Then two in the morning and two at night.  Eventually I was giving myself six injections in a day, and this was in addition to the every other day office visits in which blood was drawn and I had the pleasure of being probed with an ultrasound wand from the inside.  My arms got to the point where I really think I could have been mistaken for a junky.  Both were purple and blue from the frequent needles, and my abdomen looked like it had been attacked by an angry porcupine.  I was sore, irritable, physically and emotionally exhausted, and to top it all off, I developed adult acne.  It wasn’t bad enough that my arms and tummy were splotched and dotted, but now my face looked like I had caught some sort of horrific disease.  The kids at school actually asked me if I had been in a fire.  Great. 

Finally, after two weeks of injections and office visits, I got the call saying it was time to stimulate ovulation and come in for the egg retrieval.  Exciting, but not really, because the retrieval is the worst part of it all.  It involves the whole shebang – hospital gown, intravenous drip, being carted around on a rolling bed, drugged into delirium, and a lot of lingering pain and bloating afterward.  I even got a prescription for oxycodone to help with the pain (it went unused, I assure you).  And the best part?  Five days later I got to go back in for another procedure.  This time to put the fertilized eggs back in.  I was, once again, completely unprepared for the ordeal. 

After five days of waiting, I returned to the clinic, got back in my gown and stirrups, and prepared for the embryo transfer.  Only two of the fertilized eggs were continuing to develop by the five day mark, which made it really easy for us.  Two survived, two were transferred.  What life had been created was given the best chance for implantation.  We did not have to worry about freezing or donating unused embryos – a small mercy from God in this whole process. 

After the transfer, I now had the great pleasure of using progesterone suppositories three times a day for two weeks.  I will be honest with you – there is nothing that makes you feel less sexy than having chalky white nastiness oozing out of you all day long while you sit, stand, work, sleep, or shower.  Nothing.  Well, maybe combine it with the fact that it bloats you and makes you feel like a giant marshmallow man, and then you feel even less sexy than before.  This process took its toll on my marital relationship.  There was no way to avoid it.  I had never felt so uninterested in sex – in the very idea of sex.  And I felt so guilty.  So guilty, and still so completely uninterested.  All I wanted was to be left alone to wallow in my misery until the fateful day when I would once again take a pregnancy test.  A pregnancy test which, you can guess by now, was, as always, negative. 

I hated myself.  I hated my husband.  I hated the doctors.  I even hated God a little. 

It was while I was in this extremely vulnerable state that I received well-intentioned, but poorly timed, opinions about the IVF process.  I was accused of killing my babies.  I was told I would never truly understand the loss of a child the way people who endure miscarriages do.  I was told I was keeping God from doing His work in me by my lack of faith.  I couldn’t fight back – I didn’t have the energy.  What could I say or do in the face of this kind of insensitivity?  I was crying myself to sleep at night holding the one photo I had of the two tiny embryos that were transferred inside of me, begging God to help me understand why they hadn’t implanted, wondering if I could have done anything differently to help them survive inside my womb, and then to be asked how many of my dead children are waiting in heaven?  Why?  Why would anyone think that was an okay thing to say to me?  I was in the lowest place of my life – the closest to depression I have ever been – hating myself and wanting to die. 

So, we took a hiatus from fertility treatment. I took the needed time to climb back out of the hole I was in, and then we tried again.  One final time.  This was all the insurance would allow.  This was our last shot.  All the same discomforts.  All the same pain.  And all the same results.

This time, we were out of town and in the car on the day I was supposed to go in for pregnancy blood test.  We stopped into a store to buy an at-home pregnancy test, and I went straight to the bathroom.  I felt that same familiar tug on my heart.  The hope began to rise.  My palms began to sweat.  Dreams of what might be.  Prayers for good news.  Expectations growing…and then that old familiar sense of loss.  We got in the car, and I just broke down – mourning the loss of all I had hoped for.  Jealous of all the moms out there who got to feel their baby growing inside them day by day.  Angry at all the pregnant women who throw God’s most precious gift away by getting an abortion.  Miserable that I will never look across the kitchen table at my child and see myself reflected back in her eyes, her hair, her smile.  Furious that the one thing I had always wanted was being denied me.  Mourning the death of the three little embryos, frail and sickly though they were, that were being expelled from my body even as I sat in the car on the long journey home.  Sick to my stomach, sick in my mind, desperate and hopeless.  I just cried.  And cried. 

It is impossible to truly know the pain of childlessness until you have lived it.  I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  Not until I lived it. 

And so, there is a special bond among those of us who have experienced this pain.  One grace that has come from this journey is that I have formed relationships with others who share my pain – relationships that might not have grown had we not shared this common experience. 

One colleague who now has three children cheered me on and built me up every step of the infertility path.  On the days I felt lowest, she brought a little sunshine.  On the days I felt weakest, she strengthened me with stories of her own experiences.  At times I felt that no one could possibly understand what I was going through, she listened to my heart and felt my pain with me.

Two other colleagues who are just beginning their own journey shared their own struggles and pains.  Each story is unique, and each story brings its own heartache.  However, there is beauty and healing in sharing. 

And finally, another colleague who experienced the pain of childlessness many years ago and has since adopted seven children shared her heart with me.  She is my hero.  She demonstrates every day that being a mom is not about giving birth.  It is about sharing life.  It is about loving unconditionally.  It is about running the race with your child, supporting him through thick and thin, and standing with your arms wide open, ready to embrace him at the finish line.  It is she who inspired me to seriously consider adoption.  It is she who inspired me to keep going and keep hoping after facing the worst.

God places people in our lives.  Even through this time, the most difficult season in my life, God sent me angels in the form of people I worked with.  I see it now.  I see the way His tender mercies found me even in the depths.  I see the way He worked through them to bring hope back into my life.  I can’t say I have moved past the pain.  I don’t know that I ever will.  I have a feeling this pain will be a part of me forever.  But God provides even in the midst of the storm.  And I thank Him.