My Journey with Diminished Ovarian Reserve and My Husband’s Low Morphology

cartoon pregnant woman in pink clothes with coffee

We will never feel complete.

“Your body just isn’t responding properly; we may need to consider an egg donor.” There I sat, feeling utterly alone in a doctor’s office where I had invested my hopes and finances for a year. My husband waited in the car during the peak of the second wave of COVID-19; he couldn’t join me, so I faced this news by myself.

Having just completed my second IVF cycle, I was devastated to learn that only one embryo made it to genetic testing, and it was abnormal. Ever since I was old enough to comprehend pregnancy, I was taught how crucial it was to prevent it. I started birth control at 13 and used it on and off for 11 years. When I finally felt ready to start a family, I tossed the pills, convinced I would be pregnant within a month. After all, that’s what we’re taught—“It only takes one time,” my doctor would say. Here I am, countless attempts later, still waiting.

We do have one wonderful son, who took six months to conceive with a little help from Clomid. However, when we began trying for a second child, I was diagnosed with diminished ovarian reserve (DOR) and learned that my husband had low morphology. This was the most frightening news I had ever received. Every woman I knew shared the same fear I had: that something was wrong with my eggs. I have a predisposition to anxiety, and despite knowing I should seek therapy, I couldn’t find the time. As we tried to conceive our first child, relentless thoughts plagued me: “It’s your fault.” “Something is wrong.” “You were on birth control for too long.” Never did I think I would face this reality.

Receiving the DOR diagnosis felt like a punch to the gut. It meant my egg reserve was alarmingly low. While pregnancy was still possible, it would be significantly more challenging, and I was depleting my eggs faster than women my age typically do. My AMH level indicated I had the egg reserve of someone in their mid-30s or early 40s. I was just 27. I was in my prime, the same age my mother was when she had me. I had faced some issues when conceiving my son at 24, but I was never informed of these concerns until now. I threw myself into taking supplements and vitamins, determined to defy the odds.

Here’s my advice to all women: get your AMH levels checked. Do it now! Even if you’re not planning on having kids immediately, it’s crucial to know what’s happening inside your body. I had no symptoms or signs of DOR; my periods were always regular and on time. I was completely unaware of my condition.

Before meeting with my reproductive endocrinologist, we had been trying to conceive for seven months. By the eighth month, I called my OB for help with Clomid. After my first dose, I was elated to find out I was pregnant. I started planning for our second child, but two weeks later, I miscarried.

Though I was heartbroken, I picked myself up and kept going. After two more months of trying with Clomid, we decided to consult a fertility specialist and received the daunting diagnosis. The initial plan involved IUIs, which were covered by my insurance. Each month, I took Clomid, attended monitoring appointments, and triggered ovulation with Ovidrel. After each insemination, I convinced myself that I was going to be pregnant.

Eventually, we had to consider IVF—something I never anticipated. I was unfamiliar with the process and the associated costs, but I was willing to try. On the day I was supposed to begin medication, I underwent an early monitoring appointment. I waited anxiously for the green light, but instead, my doctor informed me I was pregnant. Unfortunately, he suspected it wasn’t a viable pregnancy due to low hormone levels, and he was right; three weeks later, I miscarried again.

It was time to stop hesitating; IVF was necessary. We signed the paperwork, made the financial commitment, and began the medications. Two weeks later, I underwent my egg retrieval, only to learn that just seven eggs were collected—disappointing but not unexpected given my diagnosis. A week later, we found that none of the embryos survived. My heart sank, but I persevered.

We immediately began our second round of IVF. More needles, bloodwork, appointments, and mood swings led to retrieval day. This time, eight eggs were retrieved—not ideal but an improvement. A week later, we learned that only one embryo reached the blastocyst stage for testing. I felt a mix of hope and realism, knowing the odds were slim. Ultimately, that embryo was also deemed abnormal, marking another painful setback.

The emotional toll of these experiences was profound. Each time, I felt as though my babies were taken from me. I had hoped IVF would yield better results, but after two disappointing rounds, it began to feel like a dead end.

Seeking a second opinion led to new tests, including an HSN and biopsy. While the biopsy indicated no endometriosis, it did reveal a polyp in my uterus that needed removal. I agreed to surgery, hoping to uncover any underlying issues. Post-surgery, I learned that while the polyp wasn’t present, I had stage 2 and 3 endometriosis. I had no prior signs or symptoms; even the biopsy had come back negative. If I hadn’t undergone this surgery, I would have remained unaware.

With both of us facing reproductive challenges, we felt our options dwindling, our finances tightening, and all we could do was hope for a miracle baby—the kind you only hear about or see on TV. I am eternally grateful for my beautiful son, who gives my life purpose. All I wanted was to provide him with a sibling, but if that’s not meant to be, I will dedicate my life to making him happy. He may be a bit spoiled and stubborn, but he will know he is loved and that we tried so hard to give him a built-in best friend. Although we have one more IVF cycle covered by insurance, we are hesitant to proceed given our past outcomes.

It’s a constant internal struggle: grateful for my son while yearning for another child. I often feel undeserving of the label “infertile” because I was able to have one child. Yet, I watch as others move forward, while I wait for the next chapter of our journey to unfold. I dream of a bustling household filled with the sounds of children, chaotic Christmas mornings, and sibling squabbles. I want it all.

I am angry at my body for not performing as it should. I can provide my son with toys and amazing vacations, but I can’t give him a sibling. We will never truly feel finished trying for another baby. We will keep fighting until the end.

For more resources on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource. Additionally, consider exploring more about our experiences with IVF and fertility here. And if you’re interested, you can find an authority on this topic at Make a Mom.

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In summary, my journey with diminished ovarian reserve and my husband’s low morphology has been filled with heartbreak and resilience. Despite our challenges, we continue to hope and fight for the family we dream of, cherishing every moment we have with our son.

Keyphrase: Diminished Ovarian Reserve and Low Morphology
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