I’ve wondered when I would write this post for years. Sometimes, after particularly promising procedures, it felt imminent. Other times nearly impossible. After four years, six invasive procedures, hundreds of injections, and thousands of pills I can hardly believe it’s time to tell you I’m pregnant. My little girl is set to enter the world this November.
And while I’m literally overwhelmed with joy, I still almost hesitate to share our news. This far into infertility treatment and it feels surreal to say I’m about to enter the second trimester of pregnancy. I assume any parent-to-be struggles with the fear of uncertainty, but I feel confident guessing there’s a unique variation for infertility patients. We’re used to bad news. It’s part of the gamble. Good news is confusing at best.
I thought about keeping the secret to myself a while longer. Hell, in the days of social distancing I could have hid the entire thing for months. But, if nothing else, it just wasn’t practical. Part of my job is sharing my experience online, and frankly it was getting tricky to hide in photos. I’ve also always been upfront about our infertility struggles; I can’t think of a good reason that honesty should change now. And no matter my fears, it felt unfair — to myself, to my husband, and to this tiny person inside me — to push away celebrations and happy thoughts because of that nugget of fear that won’t stay quiet in my mind.
When I took my at-home test, merely a few days before leaving for our Florida vacation near the start of March, I was stunned when it turned positive. While I had a positive pregnancy blood test before, my hCG was never high enough for at-home positives. This time it changed so fast I couldn’t understand what I was reading. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, remembering this was my chance to tell Lance in a memorable fashion. Despite my best efforts, I left the bathroom hysterically blubbering while he tried to piece together what was happening. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you’re saying.” “It [sob, sniffle, sob] w-w-worked.”
Several blood tests, two ultrasounds, and a dozen or so weeks later and here we are. It’s time to tell you. I still feel equally stunned, but I’ve heard it will feel more real eventually. The morning sickness is starting to settle. My back and round ligaments hurt all the time. I’m already sick of sleeping on my left side, and there is no truly comfortable way to deal with my new boobs. I’ve never been so happy to feel rather crummy.
I lost a fair amount of followers on social media when I announced the pregnancy, and I assume some of that population represents other infertility patients who don’t want a success they have yet to see plastered across their feeds. I understand that. To those who are sticking around, I’d like to reiterate an important point: This pregnancy was not brought to you by relaxation, “not trying so hard,” or any other anecdotal solution that has worked for your friend’s sister’s cousin. We did not chill out during quarantine and magically get pregnant — we were lucky enough to qualify for a procedure only a few weeks before the U.S. state of emergency. This pregnancy is the result of a heavily medicated IUI following years of oral stimulants, injections, failed in vitro attempts, invasive testing, and uterine scratching paired with doctor-approved holistic additions, the expertise of a dozen hands-on professionals, and quite literally thousands and thousands of dollars. There is an element of luck in infertility, but we must credit the medical professionals on my team for this success. I hope to those of you still waiting agree a win for one is another step toward better infertility treatments. But if you can’t follow along anymore, or need to take a break from my content, I understand.
I have no intention on shifting into pure mom blog territory, although the site does evolve with my life and this is part of ours now. You can still expect stupid humor, ample profanity, and impractical-for-children style, DIYs, and party ideas. It might take a moment to return to outfit content, though. I’m quickly running out of things that fit.