My Rose Among Thorns

A Journey to Parenthood...

Today's A Journey to Parenthood is all about my friend Keshet.  

Keshet and I grew up in the same community.  Although we didn't run in the same circles, she was a familiar face in a far away place, and has since become a good friend since we reconnected a few years ago.  

Keshet blogs about scrapbooking, and wow is her stuff fabulous, Judaism, infertility and more at www.keshetstarr.comwww.keshetstarr.com

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Our story began when I was in college, and learned that my history of irregular cycles was due to PCOS. For those who are unfamiliar, PCOS stands for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, and is a common diagnosis for women dealing with infertility. You can learn more about it here (http://women.webmd.com/tc/polycystic-ovary-syndrome-pcos-topic-overview).  While I was concerned when I first heard the diagnosis, I did more research and learned that many women with PCOS can get pregnant on a simple cycle or two of Clomid—and I was sure that would happen to me!

Fast forward five years, and I was married, in law school, and my husband and I decided to try for a baby.  When we had no luck on our own for three months or so, I turned to a reproductive endocrinologist, ready to start my month or two of Clomid.  As you can imagine, things didn’t progress quite that simply. For starters, I discovered the hard way that Clomid can cause serious hormonal changes. During the days I was on it, I would feel truly depressed, as if a heavy cloud was suffocating me and I just couldn’t breathe.  I dreaded taking the pills each month, anxiously awaiting the sadness that I knew would descend.

In addition to dealing with effects of Clomid, I also noticed a recurring pattern with my cycles. Each month, I would follow the protocol and go into the doctor at day 14 to find out if I was ovulating. And each month, at day 14, there would be nothing—my ovaries had just not responded.  I would go back week after week after week, each time finding out that I wasn’t responding, until my doctor said the cycle had failed and we would start over again. The month or two of Clomid I was expecting soon turned into four, then six, then I found myself two years into trying, still getting the same lack of response each month.  We changed the protocol from month to month, adding in glucose medications, thyroid tests, injections, etc. but nothing seemed to make a difference.

At this point, we decided to consider IVF. This was a huge leap for me, because I am not a fan of needles and procedures and IVF seemed impossibly intense. I felt terribly in limbo—without IVF, I didn’t seem to have any more options, but doing it felt impossible as well.  While I was still pursuing less invasive treatments and debating IVF, I went into my doctor’s office at the 14 day mark to discover that I was ovulating, for the first time in two years! I was sure that that would be our month.  Two weeks later, as I was getting ready to go into the doctor’s office for a pregnancy test, I found out that I was not, in fact, pregnant.

That month left me devastated. Before, I had always been upbeat and optimistic, certain that my turn was around the corner. Now, for the first time, I really wasn’t sure. This was the lowest point in the process for me—I remember feeling so much pain just looking at a pregnant woman.  We started making plans to do IVF, choosing a clinic and getting preliminary information. While we made those arrangements, I did one last Clomid cycle with my RE, again being unresponsive on day 14. On the day I was supposed to begin taking the birth control pills for IVF, my doctor asked me to take a blood test, just in case. She called a few hours later—I was ovulating again! The next day, we did an IUI procedure. Two weeks later, I was sitting on a New Jersey Transit train home from the city when my doctor called and asked if I was sitting down. The pregnancy test I had taken earlier that day was positive. Nine months later, I was holding a beautiful baby girl in my arms.

It’s so hard to find the words to sum up my experience with infertility. How can words explain the hollowness, the frustration, the odd sensation of missing something that doesn’t even exist yet? Although I am fortunate to be a mother, I try hard to remember what infertility felt like, and I work to avoid hurting others who are still waiting. I still can’t bring myself to use Facebook to share the many photos I take of my daughter, because I remember having to stop using the site entirely when I was in so much pain and babies seemed to be everywhere. At the same time, I want to give myself permission to be a normal mom—every mother has moments of frustration or needing a break, but my history with infertility can make me feel very guilty when I experience those emotions.

Above all, no matter how many years pass, no matter how many children I am blessed to have, I never want to forget the awe I felt sitting on that train when I first heard the news. After so many “no”s, I will never forget the miracle of that answered prayer.