A little over a year ago, I wrote this post about Albert's and my infertility journey. I revealed that we’d tried to conceive for two or so years without any luck before discovering that the cause of our childlessness lay in a rare disorder that impacts 1% of the male population. And, unfortunately for us, Albert, despite being the picture of perfect health in every other way, happens to belong to this 1%.
I also explained that we were about to undergo one last procedure, which was given a 4% to 10% chance of succeeding, and that though we were fully prepared for failure, we were still marching on and going through with it so that we wouldn’t look back on that chapter of our lives with regrets or “I wonders.” We were fully ready to close that chapter back then, already over a year ago now, and reach the end of our long and emotional infertility journey.
But the procedure succeeded.
And the success of that procedure opened the door for more procedures and more treatments.
I wish I could say that that was the start of a brighter road which eventually ended with a glorious pregnancy. I certainly thought it was some kind of sign at the time. I thought that God had allowed this miracle to happen because he wanted to bless us with more miracles, with children.
But I’m not pregnant, and now, after over a year of procedures with anesthesia and without, daily hormone injections, tube upon damn, orange tube of oral drugs, urine tests, blood tests, phone calls, doctor’s visits, email exchanges, and even a trip to the ER for a possible ectopic pregnancy … after a year of suffering that far surpassed the pain and exhaustion of our previous struggles, we know that we will never have biological children of our own.
I wondered if I should write out all the emotional, physical, spiritual, and relational trials that this second, unexpected part of our journey caused us. But I decided to focus on the greatest source of my pain instead, the pain that trumps all the others. I decided to write about my children, who are now in heaven.
I lost two children this past year. My first, whom I instinctively felt was a son, went to heaven in March. I found out in the ER and laid there in that bed, holding Albert’s hand, unable to really process the news.
My second, whom I felt was a daughter, went to join her brother just this past month. I was much more in tune with Baby 2, and one evening I suddenly started sobbing because I could feel that she was gone.
It happened very, very early on with both children, so there was minimal physical pain and limited time to bond, both of which I’m grateful for. I’m still dealing with the grief, though. It’s a grief that lies in the darkest recess of my heart, which somehow manages to keep on beating even though it’s broken. I’m hoping that writing this all out will help with the pain. Writing always seems to help.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hesitate to write this. Just as I did with my first infertility post, I went around and around in my head, wondering how to write this post or if I should even write it at all. According to certain Reddit threads and even some friends, I don’t have a right to grieve right now. My child was only an embryo, so I can’t grieve because it wasn’t a “real child.” My child needed to be older or look more like a baby or be fully implanted for a minimum amount of time or be fully born to count as a human being with a human soul. To them, I am not a mother who has a right to cry.
On the other side of the spectrum, there are those who would probably say that I deserve this pain because I was meddling in things I ought not to have meddled in. We used IVF to conceive these babies, and IVF is “evil.”
I thought about writing a longer post or even a series that would defend me from everyone who would attack me or misunderstand me or label me as something I’m not. But in the end, I decided I’m too grieved to care. My infertility journey and IVF have been such a huge part of my life that I don’t want to hide it or feel ashamed. I know what was in my own body, and it was a living, growing child who will forever be half me and half Albert. I also know that as a mother, to the extent that it was in my power, it was my responsibility to recognize my child as my own from the moment it was conceived, and as long as my child showed any signs of life, I don’t care how young or old that child was, I was going to do everything I could do to nurture and love it. (And no, this is not me trying to kill and condemn anyone who is pro-choice or pro-life or anything in between. That’s another topic entirely. For now, just know that whoever you are, Jesus loves you.)
I also know that I’ve done far more research on IVF than anyone who jumps to the conclusion that it’s evil. Albert and I worked extremely closely with our doctors, embryologists, and all other medical staff to make sure that we were following our religious convictions, even if it meant doing things the more painful and expensive way. I know I am innocent before God, and I know it’s not worth being friends with anyone who would prioritize proving themselves right over exercising compassion and sensitivity toward another person’s pain. I need to grieve whether or not people will support my grief.
My grief feels and looks different with each passing day. It tends to get worse then better then worse again, but if I were to map my grief, it would be climbing up each day despite the drastic dips. It would reflect a gradual change for the better.
During my lowest points, my old friend, suicidal ideations, comes to visit me. I’ll be alone in a room, tears running down my face, thinking of how much I want to hold my children in my arms, to see what they look like and who looks more like me and who looks more like Albert, to see them laugh and smile just one time. Just one time. And it becomes so tempting to want to end it all so that I can go see them and never be parted from them again.
But I also know that I won’t go through with it. I’ve dealt with suicidal ideations for decades now, and I have more control over them these days than ever before because I have more people now who would be devastated if I died. I don’t know if Albert would truly smile again. I know at least a few of my friends would, deep down, always wonder what more they could have done to stop me. And, as Albert likes to say to cheer me up, if I were gone, the dogs wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d barely last a month under his care because he sucks so much at taking care of them! And I certainly can’t do that to my good bois.
Even when the suicidal ideations aren’t raging, though, I know I’m not 100% okay. I find myself getting annoyed and irritated by loved ones much more easily than before. One thing Albert says will compute in a million different and strange ways before landing on a solution that makes him my enemy and the target of my rage. When friends lean on me for support, I try my best to do the right thing, which is to be a loving friend and, hopefully, a helpful one. But on the inside, I can feel my patience stretching to the last thread, and I need to battle with myself as I grow resentful at my loved ones for being tactless enough to lean on me when I’ve lost two of my children one after another in the past few months.
How can the world keep spinning like this when my children are dead? How can people not see past the smile I’m wearing? How come no one understands the pain I must carry and the dream that is now forever destroyed? With the loss of Baby 2, our last embryo, my dream of having my own family has been killed too. I thought that maybe someday the pain of coming from a broken, divorced family would be redeemed by starting a whole, loving family of my own. But that dream died along with Baby 2.
Of course I’ve shouted at God and asked, “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” But it’s hard for me to stay angry for long because throughout the entire IVF process, I had always prayed that if my children were to grow up to be evil or cursed to live a life of suffering that would prove too much for them or me and Albert, that God would take them now, painlessly in my womb, and let them rest in heaven with Him. So even though my prayers for a family were not answered, I know that my prayers for God to do what is best for my children were.
Plus, I know that out of great evil, God can always bring great good. Each child was still a great blessing to me, no matter how short my time with them was, because they taught me so much about life and myself.
When I lost Baby 1, I went through grief in waves of pain that would stab and sting one day then numb me the next. But as the weeks went on, I found myself moving on side by side with time. I knew that I couldn’t let my life stop at the moment I lost Baby. I knew my baby was in heaven and that I could be at ease because he was resting in peace.
If my baby were alive, there are a few non-negotiables I would have always wanted to have provided them. I would’ve wanted him to be warm, well-fed, in good company, the recipient of a good education, and, of course, walking with the Lord, Jesus Christ. In heaven, my child already has all of these things and much more, and if that’s the case, there is nothing more I can do for them. My job is done, and I can simply let my baby rest.
And as I moved on from the loss of Baby 1, I found myself more able to move on from traumas of the past too, especially the lingering memories and feelings and regrets I hold toward the abusive relationship I walked into so many years ago. I felt more empowered to move on and put the trauma of that relationship to rest. After all, if I can move on from the death of my own child, I sure as hell can move on from my abusive ex. The past doesn’t haunt me as viciously as it did prior to Baby 1.
And because I had such a short time with Baby, I learned on a deeper level how it’s okay not to stay immersed in the past, no matter how painful it was and no matter how much it shaped the present. It’s okay to savor the present because now is the time we have with loved ones. It’s okay not to fear the future because time will march on no matter what you do.
Even with all the blessings, though, the pain of losing Baby 1, along with many unforeseen and painful side effects I experienced while using the standard IVF drug routine, made me dread the embryo transfer for Baby 2. If I weren’t religious, I honestly would have just discarded Baby 2 and called it quits. That’s how awful the physical and emotional pain was. But I made a promise to give every embryo we made a fair chance for life, so despite the dread, I went through with transferring Baby 2. Now, even with the loss of that child, I’m very glad I did.
My workplace and my doctor both, thankfully, supported my taking extended leave from work for my second embryo transfer. As a result, I was able to focus all my energy on Baby 2. I’ve never taken such good care of myself in all my life as I did while going through that second round of IVF, and the only reason I had the will to do so was because I wasn’t really taking care of me but the baby. It wasn’t easy. Yeah, sure, I got to stay home from work and watch more Great British Bake Off than I ever have, but there were the debilitating drugs and injections, the uncertainties, the reoccurring side effects, the food and drink and exercise and chores I now had to avoid, and so much more that made taking care of myself a very real physical and emotional struggle.
But the time I got to have with my daughter was so precious that it made all of it more than worth it. There was such a weird, almost masochistic joy that I found in taking care of Baby 2. I think it was a tiny taste of what mothers must mean when they say that all the sacrifices they’ve made in life for their children were all worth it. When I received confirmation that Baby 2 was gone, I wept and prayed over and over again that God would give me just one day, just one more day, even if it was a lie, just one more day to take care of my baby. I loved her so much.
Before Baby 2, both Albert and I thought that we’d close up shop and call it a day after our last round of IVF, that we’d simply live childless for the rest of our lives and take full advantage of the time and money childlessness would give us. But after Baby 2, after getting that tiny taste of motherhood, I am certain I want to adopt. I understand now that having a child is all about that love you can pour onto this little human being whom you can call your own and that there are few joys in life that can compare to that kind of love.
We actually considered adopting far before we started IVF and discussed doing it even if we were to succeed in conceiving a biological child. There is a need, and I think as Christians, we should be some of the first to open up our homes to children in need. All the ups and downs of IVF, though, drained my desire for adoption. I also began to question if I were qualified to adopt a child. Adoptive children come with their own set of needs and face trauma basically from day 1. As someone who deals with trauma myself, I wondered if adopting really would be the right thing to do. I became terrified that I’d raise a child who would simply grow up and abandon me for its biological parents. But Baby 2 cleared all those doubts for me. I feel confident now that I can be a good parent. I feel sure that I want to be a parent. I simply want to love my child whether or not that child returns my love in the ways that I want. It’s more about the love that I’ll give than the love I’ll receive, whether the kid is biological or not.
I’m also sure now that I’d be okay raising a boy or a girl. Because I’ve been sexually harassed and assaulted multiple times in the past, I’d grown an extreme fear of having a girl. After my first embryo transfer, I remember having an emotional breakdown which necessitated two of my girlfriends rushing over to my house in the middle of the night to calm me down, and one of the reasons I’d had my meltdown was because I was panicking at the possibility of having a girl. “I just don’t want her to go through the shit I went through,” I told me girlfriends. “Girls go through so much. What if she’s pretty?” I had sobbed harder just at the thought of it. Beauty is such a curse for young women.
But after Baby 2, I’m not afraid any more. I know that I can use my experiences to teach my daughter all the warning signs no one ever taught me. I know I can cultivate a relationship with her so that she feels comfortable talking to me about awkward things. And I have to give more credit to the kid too. Baby 2 really fought for her life, even as a tiny embryo. She had stopped growing at a certain point before the transfer, and the embryologists thought she had died. But lo and behold, she was a feisty little one who somehow started growing again on her own accord. If she had lived, I would have told her she was a fighter from the very beginning, and I would have had confidence in her. I would have been proud of her for being a fighter, just like me.
I’m thankful to both of my children. Without them, I never would have learned all these things. They may have lived only for a short while, but they both accomplished what they were sent to do, and having accomplished them, they left this earth to be with God, as is only right.
I miss them. I miss them both so much. I love them still, even though they’re gone. But the last thing I feel is regret. I feel so blessed to have had these children with me in my womb, even for a little while. I would not give up the time I had with them for anything.
There’s little room for regret, too, because now we have a solid answer. We know with absolute certainty that we did everything in our power to treat our infertility. We have a firm diagnosis, which is much more that many other trying couples have. We have answers, and we have closure. There is literally nothing more we can do.
Well, sort of. We could technically keep trying with more rounds of IVF. But Baby 2 also answered that temptation because of all the side effects I experienced for the transfer of Baby 2. I’ve technically done 2.5 transfers now. The first time, I had to cancel the day before the transfer procedure because the side effects of one of the injections had grown painful to the point of concern. And each time I’ve gone through all the treatments leading up to and after a transfer, I’ve noticed that the amount of time it takes for me to regain my health has lengthened more and more. My body just isn’t the same any more, and I’m not sure if it ever will be again.
The side effects I had with Baby 2 were a bit more tolerable because I’d taken time off from work and had worked out a new plan of treatment with my doctor, but the fact remains that I’m still recovering right now and I still have discomfort in ways I didn’t have before. Baby 2 made it quite clear that trying IVF again would not be good for my health, and even if I were to get pregnant, I can’t imagine recovering from both childbirth and IVF treatment while taking care of a newborn. IVF has often felt like a metal pinata that I’d whack again and again because I felt that if I just whacked hard enough, I’d get what I wanted. But after Baby 2, I feel like the metal pinata is as solid as ever, and I’m left only with a broken bat and bleeding hands. I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s good to stop while you’re ahead.
I’m grateful that I have loved ones who support our decision to stop here with IVF. I was especially touched by my mother-in-law. She has long wanted grandchildren, but when Albert told her the bad news about Baby 2, her immediate reaction was to tell us to stop, that we were suffering too much, and by “we,” she was really focusing a lot on me because she knows how many drugs and procedures I’ve had to endure.
There’s a quote at the end of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King that I’ve often thought about when dealing with my traumas and now while dealing with the loss of my children. “How do you pick up the threads of an old life?” Frodo asks. “How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand … there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.”
There is no going back, and decades from now, on the rare occasions that I’ll dwell on these losses, I know I’ll never feel fully okay. There will always be a small, dull pain that will only mend once I see my children in heaven. But just as there is no going back, there is always a moving forward.
I didn’t realize until very recently just how all-consuming our infertility journey, and especially IVF, have been. There’s always a split moment before I drink or eat something when I wonder if it’s okay before realizing that I can do whatever I want now because there is no next cycle of IVF and I’m not on any drugs whatsoever. My life runs on normal days, weeks, and months and not on cycles of my menstruation or drug schedules. I don’t have to panic when I accidentally over-exert myself physically because I’m not going to harm the baby or reduce my chances of a successful pregnancy the next round. There are no more emails to send or phone calls to take, no more counting down the minutes as you wait for answers, no more getting jabbed with needles, no more going back and forth from doctors’ offices, no more hunting down which medication is causing me so much abnormal pain, no more collaborating with my doctor to find a concoction of drugs that won’t make my uterus feel like it’s going to fall out of my body, no more driving across town to the one pharmacy that stocks IVF drugs for Kaiser. My life has suddenly fallen back into normalcy, and now that it has, I feel foolish for having given myself such a hard time before for “not dealing with everything as well as I should.” I should have given myself and Albert far more credit for having dealt with everything that we did. We’ve survived.
There are still some good changes that came with IVF that I’m keeping, though. Instead of drugs and prenatals, I now have no problem remembering to take vitamins and supplements daily on autopilot. I’m much more aware of my body’s physical limitations and feel far less guilty for listening to any warning signs. I’m an expert at keeping hydrated and avoiding hunger. I’m also much better at taking things day by day. Worrying about things that will happen in six months’ time doesn’t do me much good right now. I don’t have to think about the future all the time to stay on top of my life. And so much of my brain fog, which I blamed myself for, thinking I was getting old and soft, is clearing up rapidly. I’m thinking more clearly these days than I have in over a year now that the all-consuming craziness that is IVF is finally gone from my life.
I miss my children, but this isn’t the end. There’s still my marriage to enjoy and possible adoptive children to meet and raise and love. There will be a day when I’m reunited with my son and my daughter, and it’ll be in the presence of Jesus Himself. There is still life and love, warm meals and laughter. Though my pain is dark and deep, I know there will always be a brighter future in this life and the next.
