As a child, I dreamt of a future filled with possibilities: working at a grocery store, teaching, or even gracing the Broadway stage—all while being a mother. I imagined myself as a brain surgeon, an anthropologist, a writer, and yes, a mom. Sometimes I envisioned a supportive husband, other times a lively household full of children—perhaps even a soccer team or a talented group of singers.
As I transitioned into adulthood, I was pleasantly surprised to find that life often exceeded my expectations. By the age of 29, I was married—just in time to start considering the next milestone: motherhood before 35. But deep down, I sensed challenges ahead. My menstrual cycles were erratic and painful, occurring only a handful of times each year, making it impossible to chart them accurately.
After a year of hoping for a miracle, I scheduled my first infertility consultation, expecting a quick resolution. Instead, I left with a stack of paperwork and a list of tests. The initial blood work revealed promising results, indicating that my husband’s sperm was robust and healthy. Yet, this also meant that the path to conception wasn’t straightforward.
After a series of invasive tests, we finally encountered potential issues: Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). Over the years, discussions around whether this diagnosis was definitive swirled in my medical files. My ovaries appeared typical for PCOS, but my hormone levels told a different story. I wasn’t overweight or apple-shaped, and any excess body hair could be attributed to my Eastern European heritage.
With no clear answers, I was left feeling hopeless. Our kind doctor, a soft-spoken man with long eyelashes, guided us gently through the process. We experimented with various medications and intrauterine insemination, yet my body often refused to cooperate. Some months produced eggs that were too large, others too small, and many times, I would find myself facing my period far too soon.
Ultimately, the realization hit us: to have a child, we would need to consider adoption or in vitro fertilization (IVF). The most compassionate thing our doctor did was to refrain from offering false reassurances.
The following year was filled with early morning appointments, pokes, and prods, along with monthly trips where my husband had to keep a specimen warm in his shirt. The medication was challenging, often leading to emotional turmoil. I felt overwhelmed by constant tears, night sweats, and what I can only describe as estrogen-induced rage. At one point, we took a much-needed pause to evaluate our options, even discussing the possibility of divorce—not out of a lack of love, but because we had different visions for our future family.
I was determined to build a family, willing to pursue adoption or become a science experiment if necessary. My husband, however, was uncertain about loving a child who wasn’t biologically his. He was content with our life together and didn’t want to endure the financial and emotional toll of IVF.
After some soul-searching, we decided to visit an IVF clinic. Our new doctor, a bald man with a reassuring demeanor, presented us with financial options and straightforward answers. He made it clear that the specifics of our situation were less important than the outcome. We learned that IVF could potentially provide us with a baby, even if my eggs were less than optimal. At 32 years old, the prospect of a 90% success rate for $25,000 sold my husband on the idea.
Yet, I felt apprehensive. What if we were among the 10% who didn’t succeed? I couldn’t shake the image of a group of women, and me standing alone on the sad side of the room. We signed up with a sperm bank and started the necessary blood work, kicking off our first cycle on December 26, 2010.
Each visit to the clinic felt like a math problem. I would scan the waiting room, calculating the odds—four out of five women would likely become mothers. I found myself scrutinizing others, searching for reasons why someone might leave empty-handed. This experience transformed my perspective on life. I became focused solely on my goal, even if it meant stepping on others along the way. I didn’t want to hear about your day, nor could I bear to attend your baby shower if you became pregnant. The women in the online infertility forums seemed braver than I, even if I secretly wished I could escape their reality.
Words of comfort were often misguided: “It will happen when it happens,” or “Just adopt.” Instead, what I needed to hear was, “Life is unfair, and it’s okay to feel angry.”
In the end, our journey led to a joyful conclusion: our son, Ethan, was conceived through IVF. Yet, the scars of that journey remained. There’s a lingering uncertainty that accompanies my motherhood experience. I often catch myself questioning if I truly belong in this role.
It’s a complex path, filled with anger and eventual acceptance, but I’ve learned that hope can flourish even in the darkest of times. If you find yourself navigating the challenging road of infertility, know that you are not alone.
For more insights on home insemination and related topics, check out this excellent resource or explore our post on at-home insemination kits.