Category Archives: FET

I don’t know if my family is whole.

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On August 16th of 2023, I watched the screen as a little white dot descended into my uterine lining, hoping and praying that my $5,000 embryo transfer would take. I took the envelope from the nurse, containing the photo of my embryo, refusing to look at it until I knew whether or not I’d ever hold that little life in my arms. Just 10 days later, I received the news that, indeed, I was pregnant. I continued my progesterone shots for another six weeks, before I saw and heard confirmation that my baby had a beating heart on my final ultrasound with the fertility clinic. The pregnancy was viable. As I readied to leave, I jokingly told my doctor that I hoped I’d never see him again. Just a few short weeks later, the blood test came back. My baby was a healthy little boy. I would finally have the two girls and two boys I had always wanted. After this third pregnancy and fourth child in three years, we were done… which was exactly how the announcements were worded over the next few months. #fourthandfinalgranger

I spent my pregnancy with my Sullivan cherishing every milestone as the last. Jake vetoed every name for the last time. I made my last Christmas stocking and baby blanket. I felt my last first kick. I saw my last ultrasounds. Every moment was precious, right up to point when they stuck me with that needle to administer the spinal for my C-section. As the doctor opened me up, she affirmed all these sentiments, announcing that she didn’t recommend another pregnancy, because my uterus was so thin. That was quite alright with me, because I’d accepted that this was the last time I’d feel that tug and hear that first cry. It was the last time I’d hold my brand new baby on my chest, whispering how I loved him despite how very gross he was at that moment. This was my last hospital stay and my last recovery.

My Sully was and is perfect, y’all, utterly and completely. He was my largest baby, at 8 pounds, 12 ounces and his birth was the second time in my life that I’ve loved a boy at first sight. Though exhausted from the drugs, I’ll never forget the feeling of knowing his heart was racing until he lay on my chest as I snuggled him. I hardly put him down in the following hours, despite the pain of my surgerical wound. I watched and recorded as the nurse gave him his first bath. I dressed him in his going home outfit and took photos of his first car ride. The next day, I introduced him to his sisters and brother, joking that he was the last one.

Over the next few weeks, I was perfectly content knowing that Sully was my final baby, as I soaked up all of the newborn snuggles. Four years after finding out Jake and I might never have children, I had everything I ever wanted. I could donate my remaining embryos with the peace of mind that I’d had the children I could have without risking their mother. My family was whole.

Four weeks after giving birth, I returned for my follow-up appointment and simply asked for verification that I couldn’t safely carry more children. This time, however, there was a significant shift to my doctor’s tone. What had previously been a recommendation not to get pregnant again had turned to a casual note that I would be fine, as long as we delivered at 36 weeks, to avoid labor. Having had the girls at 35 weeks, I know firsthand that this isn’t a big deal. With that one conversation, my world turned on a dime. Just an hour earlier, I’d been absolutely content with the knowledge that my five remaining embryos would be donated to a couple of my choosing when I was ready. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

When Jake and I started our IVF journey, we only spoke briefly about what we’d do with leftover embryos. Having been assured by the doctor that we’d be lucky to get three, maybe four, we weren’t especially concerned, particularly since our previous cycle had been a complete failure. When I found out we had eight embryos I figured that, with the odds being 50/50 for each, we could possibly even have all of them ourselves. Then, both embryos took and we had the Violet and Scarlett. Then, Thomas came naturally, despite all odds. Then, my first FET took and gave me Sully. I’m beyond fortunate to have my family, but I’m not sure I can give up more of my children than I’ve even had, knowing I could carry them. It’s been four months since my Sully came into my life and I’m no longer sure my family is whole. I look at his little face and see such a stark resemblance to his sisters. I can’t help but imagine other babies with the same fat cheeks and plump lips. I don’t particularly want more children, but I also feel a responsibility to have as many of the embryos I created as I safely can.

There are a lot of moral objections to IVF. As a practicing Catholic, who simply was not strong enough to trust in God to give her children, I am well aware of the arguments against it. While I won’t debate those here, I am starting to feel that there’s not enough education surrounding the topic of leftover embryos. Sure, you’re told it’s a possibility and given a couple of options, but every single couple experiencing that stage of infertility is lost in a fog of fear that they’ll never have children. Jake and I, quite literally, ended the discussion with the agreement to think about it after we were actually able to have a family. That would be Future Belle’s and Future Jake’s problem. Well, here I am, Future Belle and I… don’t think I can do it.

When I was recovering from heart failure, after the girls were born, my cardiologist told me about a woman who continually played Russian roulette, regardless of being advised against more pregnancies. After her sixth, she ended up in permanent, life-altering heart failure. I am not that woman. If and when I’m told that I can no longer safely carry a child, I will be done. Having had three C-sections already, I know the number of children I can carry is finitem. However many embroys remain, I will donate to a childless couple and hope they have a beautiful life. While it might be difficult, I’m comfortable with explaining to an adult biological child that I couldn’t risk my own life when I had other children. What I’m not comfortable with, however, is explaining that I gave them up because I just wasn’t up for it. Furthermore, I don’t think I can tell my existing children that, had a different embryologist been working that day, they might not have made the cut for my vision of a perfect family.

While Jake hasn’t ruled out the possibility of more children, I do think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I am so tired of being pregnant. I want to get my body back and feel strong, once again. I want to enjoy the family I have and move on to the next stage of life. He knows that. Personally, I think he’s waiting in vain. I have another six months or so before I’d want to do a transfer, to see if I can come to terms with donating my embryos. I have no desire to put this off, only to panic at 40 and insist it’s not too late. In the meantime, I just don’t know that my family is whole.

A $5,000 Christmas Stocking

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The year Jake and I got married, we spent approximately $400 on Christmas decorations. At 32, Jake had been a bachelor his entire adult life. His duplex barely had furniture, let alone holiday decor. I, however, made a deliberate effort to enjoy my single girl apartment to the fullest every year, by gleefully putting up the hot pink, six foot Christmas tree I got from Borders when they went out of business. When we married, Jake and I… compromised I suppose, though the process didn’t seem quite so simple at the time. Ultimately, I sold my glorious pink tree on Facebook Marketplace, Jake accepted an agreed upon amount of glitter, and we invested in classic decorations to be used year after year. I bought fabric, sewed a matching tree skirt and his/her stockings, had our names embroidered on the latter, and we celebrated our first Christmas as husband and wife.

The next Christmas was our first in our own home and the only thing we were missing was stocking holders, a purchase I approached with the same long-term intentions as the previous year’s decor. Though Jake would eventually realize my tendency to buy holiday items months in advance was not just out of excitement, but an understanding of availability, in 2018, we were not yet there. So it happened that, as late as December, I hadn’t bought stocking holders for our new mantle. Since Hobby Lobby stops receiving Christmas inventory in October, I couldn’t find a matching set there. Angry at Jake for making me wait so long, I dragged him from city to city, visiting Target after Target, to collect six identical holders. Surprisingly, he humored me, though he couldn’t understand why I needed so many. Though we’d previously talked about having three children, maybe four based on gender, I was holding out for the latter. I’d always wanted two boys and two girls. If I was fortunate enough to get my way, it seemed disproportionately important to me at the time, that we not have to repurchase our stocking holders. If I didn’t get four or we changed our minds, I figured we could always use the extras for the pets.

After two cycles of back-to-back pandemic IVF, Jake and I found out in 2020 that we were having twins. Our difficulty getting pregnant meant that these might be our only children, despite having frozen embryos. Still, when I bought the fabric for their stockings, realizing the dye lot was slightly off from ours, I not only purchased enough for four, but cut the patterns in advance. Just over a year later, I got the news that I’d need one more stocking, having naturally conceived our miracle baby. So it was, last Christmas, I saw five out of my six stocking holders filled above my fireplace. In both the world of infertility and the general public, I had the perfect family with my two girls and one boy… but I still had one more stocking holder.

I thought I’d change my mind, y’all. Everyone said I would. After one child, I’d only want two. After two, I’d be done. After three, I’d realize we were already outnumbered and couldn’t even fathom another. I waited for the feeling that four was an idealistic dream, that my family was indeed whole. It never came. In March, when my Thomas was barely four months old, I broached the topic with Jake, unsure how he felt about the issue. We’d already scheduled an embryo transfer the day I found out I was pregnant. That embryo was a child we had planned to have and raise. Under those circumstances, a fourth was unlikely, if only for financial reasons, but Thomas’s conception didn’t cost us a dime. If we’d once agreed to consider four solely based on gender, how could we give up an embryo that we’d originally planned to have as part of our family? I did try to avoid emotional blackmail while discussing the topic, but as I held my tiny son, I burst into tears at the thought of never meeting the child I might have held had things been different, at the thought of things having been different and not having my Thomas. After a month or so of consideration, Jake agreed. He wasn’t far from the age we’d agreed we’d no longer intentionally get pregnant, so it was now or never. We would proceed with a frozen embryo transfer, or FET, over the summer and find a way to pay for it later. I quietly told myself that if it failed, I would drain my retirement using my remaining embryos until I had my fourth; the max number of children we’d ever planned for or thought we could handle, two more than we were ever recommended to attempt after the complications during the birth of our girls. Only then would I donate my frozen embryos to another heartbroken, yet hopeful couple, who desperately wanted a family.

I shared pieces of my FET story as the process unfolded. It was far more difficult than I ever expected. In fact, had it indeed failed, I’m not so sure I could have gone through it all again. The birth control hormones alone had me completely off-kilter. The estrogen pills made me utterly insane… and possessed my little Scarlett with at least six demons the day she got ahold of one. Poison control assured us she would be fine as her head rotated 360 degrees. The progesterone shots weren’t only painful, but made me unbearably sick and caused nerve damage I still feel today. I went through it all, with three under three at home, who had no understanding of Mama’s sudden short temper or erratic tears. I gambled $5,000 on one modest income for a family of five… all for a 50/50 chance of success… and it worked.

Today, few can say that they got the family of their dreams, as they compromise for their partner, who wants fewer children… for their career, because childcare costs are too high… for a poor economy, because they fear they can’t afford it… and of course, due to infertility, because they’re lucky to have children at all. With that in mind, I am so truly fortunate to be able to say that, although we never tested our embryos and couldn’t have known gender, we’ll be getting the two girls and two boys of which I’ve always dreamt. In April, Violet and Scarlett will be thrilled to greet another baby brother, two months before they turn three. Thomas will have his buddy, his teammate, his partner in crime only 16 months his junior. I’ll have been pregnant every year since 2020 to have four under three for a total cost of $35,00 before labor and delivery fees. I already know it will all have been worth it, though, because I’ve already filled those stocking holders with my fourth and final Christmas stocking… which cost me just $5,000.

Schrödinger’s Baby

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PUPO (Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise). It’s a popular acronym in the infertility community, usually accompanied by embryo photos and descriptions of pregnancy symptoms that could realistically only be the side effects of progesterone injections, even if the poster is pregnant. For 10-14 days (depending on the clinic), these maybe mothers-to-be excitedly count down to testing day, imagining the baby that could be. When the time comes, some excitedly announce a “sensitive post,” which literally even the most casual observer like myself knows proceeds a positive test. Others post videos of themselves breaking down. Many just disappear for a few days or weeks to process a lost embryo. I’ve never been an active participant in the infertility community, myself. I understand that different people cope with this terrible situation in different ways, but aside from this blog, I’m a private sufferer. I haven’t told a soul we’ve undergone a transfer. If it fails, no one will know. Maybe that’s healthy and maybe it’s not, but I don’t see how doing full make-up and posting a photo of myself crying behind a letter board announcing the results to the world would any healthier.

These last seven days have been absolutely wretched. My hips are black and blue from the injections. I’m exhausted from stress-induced lack of sleep. I ironically yelled at my precious two-year-old for being rough with a book called “K is for Kindness.” I honestly don’t know how other women choose to embrace the possibility of success, especially those who’ve experienced thedevastating call that goes something like this:

“I need you to stop taking all medications immediately. The side effects should fade within the next week. You can expect a really heavy period. We’d like you to wait at least one cycle before trying again, but after that, it should be quite simple.”

Simple. I just have to fork over another $4,000 – $5,000 and spend two more months yelling at my children and husband, randomly bursting into tears, and feeling like I have the flu… all while wrangling three in diapers. A part of me envies the positivity of these women announcing that they are “PUPO”. The realist in me understands that if the power of positive thinking created babies, we wouldn’t be here. No matter what we do, we are simply experiencing a case of Schrodinger’s Baby, a term anyone who has nerdy friends or a cursory knowledge of The Big Bang Theory, should be able to decipher. Per Wikipedia:

In quantum mechanics, Schrödinger’s cat is a thought experiment that illustrates a paradox of quantum superposition. In the thought experiment, a hypothetical cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead, while it is unobserved in a closed box, as a result of its fate being linked to a random subatomic event that may or may not occur.

We are both pregnant and not pregnant simultaneously. More morbidly, our embryos are both alive and not alive. We can do nothing to increase the odds. We just have to wait… miserably.

I’ve spent the last seven days both certain that I’ll complete my family… and also that I’ll let everyone down, destroying our baby, my children’s sibling, and wasting the $5,000 we’ve gambled on this cat being alive when we open the box. I’ve both declared that I’ll drain my own retirement to get my fourth before I’ll donate it with my other embryos… and also that I cannot do this again. I’ve felt hopeful… and I’ve cried in Jake’s arms over the fact that it’s not supposed to be like this, that it’s not fair that this is how we have to make a baby. I’ve cuddled my Thomas and been so very grateful I got to have him the traditional way… and I’ve been bitter that I didn’t get to do so again. I’ve thanked God that I didn’t have to go through IVF again… and I’ve been certain that this is equally difficult.

My blood test is tomorrow. I will either find relief… or long for this state of not knowing, this phenomenon of Schrodinger’s Baby, because at least then, there was a chance and that was better. I cannot do this again… unless I have have to do this again.

I don’t think I can do this more than once.

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When I found out I was pregnant with Thomas, my feelings were surprisingly conflicted. I wanted another baby, but a natural conception meant there was one more frozen embryo I wouldn’t get to use myself. The cost savings were great, but I was still worried about my health. I wanted more children, for my girls to have more siblings, but not at the expense of growing up without a mother. It was good news, of course, but bittersweet in a sense.

A practicing Catholic, I don’t believe in auras, crystals, or intuition beyond the norm. More than once, I’ve lost respect for someone’s intelligence when they’ve tried to sell me on horoscopes or personality tests beyond silly fun. I don’t mean quietly, either. Words like “hogwash” and “malarkey” are my immediate response to any mention of the Enneagram or Myers-Briggs. I’ll even back it up with citations. That said, I’ve always felt that I was meant to have four children, similar to the way I always felt I was meant to have twins. I assign no greater meaning to the idea, nor do I claim to have some kind of foresight or premonition. It’s just a feeling. As I go through this embryo transfer process, however, I feel more and more that this is how it was meant to be, because y’all, I don’t think I could have done this again had it been required to bring my Thomas into the world.

When I wrote about my first appointment to the fertility clinic since 2020, when the girls were conceived, I mentioned how much I seem to have blocked out since then. That being the case, I honestly don’t recall what it was like undergoing back-to-back pandemic IVF. I don’t really remember the mood swings and the side effects of the drugs. Considering the impact of the medications required for this FET, I don’t think I want to remember, either. Last time, I only had Jake to burden, when I lost my temper or found myself incredibly depressed by the entire process. Now, I have three wonderful little humans relying on me as their primary source of affection on an average weekday… and it sucks.

I won’t say that I’m a paragon of “gentle parenting” on a normal day. I firmly believe the constant cajoling and bargaining parents do with their children to get them to behave is why they’re all little nightmares. Still, like most parents, I’m trying to break patterns from my own childhood. I offer choices when possible. I ask nicely at least twice. I try to not to yell, unless someone’s in danger. I refuse to use screentime as a crutch. Put me on birth control pills alone, though…

Folks, I am completely rethinking the ubiquity of hormonal birth control over here. After a couple of years on Mirena with few side effects from the localized hormones, I never went back on any kind of hormonal birth control. Five weeks on the pill before switching to estrogen, though, and I feel like I’m going to be the subject of an HBO docuseries. It doesn’t help that my own mother likely had undiagnosed bipolar disorder, a declaration I don’t make lightly, considering my entire generation’s obsession with self-diagnoses. Whatever the cause, when I was growing up, it wasn’t rare for a night of fun and laughter to take a hard left turn toward broken furniture and bruises. While I’ve certainly not been violent, I loathe feeling as though I can’t control my emotions around my children. They depend on me to be loving, kind, and playful, not angry, short-tempered, and depressed. I know everyone thinks it’s lunacy to have my babies so close together, but my stars, at this point, I’m just glad they won’t remember this.

I hope this transfer works for so many reasons. I want our embryo to thrive and grow into a healthy baby boy or girl. I want our family to finally be complete. I don’t want our financial investment to be for nothing. I want the strain I’m putting on my body to have a purpose. I want a fourth so badly and we have embryos to use, so I can’t say if this fails I won’t try again. Still, I just want this to be over, because I don’t think I can do this more than once.

Crying in My Car

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I’ve never done a frozen embryo transfer, or FET. It’s been almost exactly three years since we started the journey to our family on July 18th, 2020, with what would be our first IVF cycle. An utter failure, we had no embryos to freeze and immediately put down a $1,000 deposit to start the next cycle, as soon as possible. That one resulted in our twin girls, Violet and Scarlett, along with six frozen embryos. We’d planned to do an FET the summer of 2022, despite my fears and hesitancy. Thomas surprised us just in time, though, as the baby we were told we couldn’t conceive. So, I am blessedly the mother of three and have never undergone an FET.

I keep telling myself this is easier than pandemic IVF. There’s no need for theatrics and melodrama. Even if this doesn’t work, if it never works and just isn’t meant to be, we have three children. Two girls and a boy is an infertile couple’s literal dream. Anything less than relentless gratitude is selfish and overdramatic. That’s what I tell myself. It hasn’t really set in, though.

I suppose this is easier, but my stars did I fail to prepare myself for how far that would still land me from easy. The grating sound of every person on HGTV ever as I sit in the waiting room, the ultrasounds, the blood draws, the small crowd looking at my vagina, all have me near my breaking point. The expense as I put our family’s financial well-being on the line, knowing I might disappoint everyone and destroy our embryo, our baby… well, that has me crying in my car over a fresh bag of prescriptions, thinking how it isn’t supposed to be this way. I’m not supposed to be building my family through procedures and medications. I’m supposed to enjoy being with my husband for a few unprotected months and receive wonderful news in my own bathroom for the cost of a one dollar pregnancy test. I’m not supposed to be going through this alone again.

I have to remind myself why I’m alone. It’s not election day 2020, mid-pandemic, and I am not having another egg retrieval while Jake waits in the car, unable to join his wife in surgery because of Covid-19. I’m alone because he’s at home with our three children, who I refuse to bring into a fertility clinic. They were created out of a different kind of love, as a different kind of miracle, but that’s just how our family was meant to be built. It’s not fair that this is how we have to do it, but we’re so lucky it’s an option available to us. We’re so lucky to have gotten Thomas without the cost and drama. They are all so very worth it.

Still, I’m going to allow myself a few more minutes to finish crying in my car.