Why I am Talking about my Infertility

Over the last few months I have joined twitter and have been apart of a community of other women and couples who are going through infertility. I wish I would have thought of this community sooner. My never ending google searches led me to blogs, which led me to twitter. I was hesitant on whether this type of support could really work for me.

At first, I thought me wanting to reach out to a group of strangers must be nuts! Imagine my surprise when I began searching for friends and 100s upon 1000s of friends with the related topic of “infertility” continued to surface. Imagine my surprise when this group of “strangers” helped get me through my first IVF cycle, keep my sanity when it did not work, and bring me laughter & joy in my everyday life of living with infertility. Imagine finding a group that just “gets it,” after a year and half of trying so hard to get those around me to get it- in one week I felt connected to this community and more connected to myself.

Through sharing my experience and getting advice via twitter I have been able to speak more to my own family and friends upon issues and concerns I face daily when it comes to my infertility. However, there is so much, so many do not understand. I thought I was the only one who wanted to vomit at the site of a pregnancy announcement via Facebook only to discover most of the community has deleted this aspect of social media for this reason.

Around Christmas I was feeling so raw. It was the time that had my IVF of been successful we would have been announcing our little one. It was the time in which family and friends thought our IVF didn’t have anything to do with the holiday and wondered why we weren’t fully participating in every aspect of this joyous occasion.

So I had an idea. If everyone was going to flood my newsfeed on Facebook I could
a. Delete my Facebook and let infertility take another part of my life away.
b. Share with the same family and friends the struggle of infertility.

I thought about it for awhile. I struggled with how much or how little to tell people. Did  I really want this on social media?  Who would I not want to see it? When the answers to the difficult questions were answered, I realized – I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed of this process. In fact sharing our story might bring more awareness to the fact that many couples are going through this struggle. It might make my “friends” think a little harder before posting certain verbiage around being a mother. I couldn’t think of any negatives and so we decided we would do a photo shoot to capture the sadness and struggle of this last year and the hope for this new year.

Even the morning of our photo shoot we both had hesitation on whether we really wanted to go through with our infertility outting. Our photographer was amazing as you can see. She made it clear that she was not going to share the pictures on social media and that it would be up to us what we wanted to use and leave out.

When I saw the proofs later that afternoon, I cried. They were so beautiful. There were pictures of my husband and I playing in the snow, laughing, and moments of seriousness capturing pieces of our journey. It was the best photo shoot we have ever had. She captured the true connection between us. A connection I know and feel was not there two years ago. I could feel the love between us just glowing off the screen. For the first time, I wasn’t trying to find the right words, describe the devastation, or get someone to see the story my way. It was so simply stated in a matter of 16 photographs; our love, our dedication, our connection, and our journey to our baby.

I share both my photo’s and video with you because I believe our happiness and sadness our not ours alone. I believe with every perceived negative there is a positive, I believe that in the darkest of days there is still a bright light, and I know wherever you are in your journey whether infertility or something else – life has a plan for you for me for us. and where we are in this moment at this time is exactly where we are meant to be…


Please say my baby’s name

It took me 10 weeks after my miscarriage to say his name out loud. When it finally rolled off my tongue it was the only name I wanted to speak for weeks. Saying his name, hearing his name, well it made my love for him feel validated.

The initial weeks after my miscarriage life was a blur, I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, work, or quite honestly move from my bed. Every morning I woke-up reached for my belly and had to remember he was gone…

Friends and family tried to comfort me, tried to relate, and most of all just wanted to see me back to “normal.” When Noah died a piece of me died. There is a piece of me that will never go back to “normal” because once you know something you cannot un-know it. 

Weeks later the piece of me that died with Noah took on new life. There will never be a way to bring back my first baby, to see his face, to hear him laugh, to hold his warm skin next to mine. This pain is something I will carry with me the rest of my life. You know the saying “everything happens for a reason.” The empty un-comforting words that everyone around you clings to while you damn well know that you will never find reason in the death of your child…

& even though I cannot find reason I can find hope. Though Noah will never go to kindergarden or be the curly hair boy running through the park – he can live on. He can make a difference in this world, he can be the catalyst to something wonderful.

As the weeks continue and Noah is almost forgotten to all those around me…

I strive to remind them there is no moving on.   I have his last ultrasound picture in my car, I’ve tried to remove it twice & only ended up putting it right back, a picture in my bay window over looking the yard, a statue in the front where a tree will go – because seeing it reminds me that I’m home & in my home Noah is more alive than ever before. But still I wanted him closer…

I had a necklace made which says his name on the front and “to be continued” on the back. Meaning my baby continues, all of his goodness continues through me and I will continue to be the woman I would want my child to look up to and admire. Days when I feel the deep sadness that he is not here with me, I have a reminder that he is forever apart of me…

I see the discomfort in others faces when they ask about my necklace and I say my baby’s name, I feel the awkwardness, the silent judgement, and to me that is where the change begins. Facing the stigma and breaking the silence that losing my baby at no matter what week was me losing my baby. That even though it is incredibly sad – I want to hear my baby’s name, I want to know he is not forgotten, I want for him what every mother wants for their child – to be recognized to be loved.

“Twas the night before transfer…


The biggest misconception in regards to infertility is that there is ever a moment it’s not on our mind. “twas the night before transfer” was inspired on an August morning 2 days before my transfer day. Already in my mind I’m thinking of Christmas; remembering that baby Noah will not be born on December 6th, knowing that this cycle may only add to the sadness, and knowing that I have no control of the outcome.

How could someone take such a happy rhyme and make it about IVF? It is easier than you think considering my every thought, every breath, every heartbeat is align with Noah and our struggle to conceive.

I hope this brings some humor as you think about Christmas and your transfer. Even though we cant escape the pain and agony that goes with this journey, may we be able to recall moments with a light heart.

‘Twas the night before transfer, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The uterus lining grown with much care,
In hopes that a growing blast soon would be there;

Our growing embryo safe in the lab
While visions of baby danced in our heads;
And mamma in her ‘warm socks, and I in my loose pants,
Had just settled down from our evening demands

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Transfer day was finally here!

With a little hesitation, but yet lively and quick,
I knew in a moment there was no time to think

More rapid than eagles I went to the sink
Filled up water bottles, ready to drink
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When we meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to clinic we drove with care

A  car full of joy, & thoughts we rather not share
And then, in a twinkling,
the embryologist provided proof 
Our little embryo was ready for their big move.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the hall came Dr.Brown

He was dressed all in white, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were sterile and smelled like antibiotic soap
A bundle of instruments he held in his hand
My bladder so filled, you wouldn’t understand.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled the catheter ; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger upon my leg
And giving a nod, there were no words that needed to be said

He sprang to his feet, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they whisked me

But I heard him exclaim, ere he walked out of sight,
“This time it will work, just sit tight!”

Why I’m grateful for my infertility


I write this as a woman who has been through two IVF cycles one fresh and one frozen. One which failed completely and one which resulted in a pregnancy, heartbeat, and miscarriage followed by a D&C at 7 weeks. I also write this as a woman who knows in her gut she will be a mother. I may not know when but I know for sure it will happen.

I could tell you that month after month it gets easier but I would by lying through my teeth. I could tell you that at some point you get use to choking back tears when you notice you’re the only one in a room without a child. I could tell you one day you wont throw that birth announcement in the trash and later pick it out once you have had a good cry. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you any of these things but what I can tell you…

Two and half years ago I was ready. Ready to carry a baby, ready to be a mom, ready to create all the memories my husband and I had been discussing for years. So mentally I was “ready” but physically – I was on three to four different medications, my thyroid was not working correctly and prolactin levels 3x what is considered normal, I ate anything and everything I wanted including; 6-8 cups of tea and ice cream for dinner. I never worked out in fact I didn’t even own a pair of running shoes and hadn’t for about ten years.

We were making decent money and we spent it on whatever we wanted in the moment; vacations, clothes, take out, etc. We were working really hard and didn’t even have a savings account. We had plenty of house projects we would get to “one day” and sure we needed a new car but we could decide that when the babies came. We fought about stupid things I was completely insecure and depended on my husband for all means of happiness. He was well reserved and had trouble understanding why I needed so much attention. God and I hadn’t spoken in awhile and because in my mind I thought everything was going so well we didn’t have a conference call planned any time soon.

When I found out IVF would be our only option – I’ll admit it, a piece of me was happy. I thought well, now I can get PGS and we can have a boy and a girl and be pregnant once and be done. It took me six months after our diagnosis to realize this would not at all be the case.

When cycle one failed I can’t even put into words the devastation and disbelief. The sense of entitlement I had entertained thinking I would never be one of those woman on the “am I pregnant” google search debriefing about her 4th IVF cycle. When the cycle failed I vowed I was going to make some healthy changes. Though I had stopped eating and drinking all caffeine before this cycle my diet was still pretty bad- I had never heard of a flax seed or had an organic tomato in my life.

As the months progressed after my first cycle I wondered why it didn’t work? But most of all I wondered how I didn’t know it didn’t work – even when I was bleeding for three days? How had I been so disconnected from my own body that even when it was screaming at me the truth I continued to tell it – “YOUR LYING!”

I began seeing a personal trainer because going to the gym was not even a coherent thought. Over those 4 months I learned how to workout, relieve stress, and listen to my body. I also learned how to push myself even when it felt impossible to demand more because in my heart I knew I was holding back. I wish I could say I lost the 25 IVF pounds I had gained – I didn’t. However, as the weeks continued I felt more and more ready to try again. My blood work was perfect thyroid in check, prolactin levels the lowest they had ever been off one of my medications and controlling stress like a boss.

My husband and I tightened up our spending. Limited nights out, no fancy vacations and cut back on monthly treats. “One day” was here and those house projects that had been sitting were finally going to get done. We took out a home equity loan and atleast the stress about finances would subside for some time.

Suddenly, on a March evening after my 2nd transfer a second line appeared. I was alone  and literally blurted out the words “holy shit!” With my pants still around my ankles I dropped to my knees. I cried tears the size of grapes and continued to thank God for this moment, I promised for as long as that stick had two lines I would be happy and I vowed to celebrate that child every minute of their life.

At 7 weeks I lost my baby (Noah). To understand the gutting pain you can read my previous blogs but I will choose not to revisit in this moment. When 5 weeks had passed after my loss, I forced myself to the trainer. I reconnected with one of my best friends who I hadn’t really spoken to in three years. We began going to the gym together 3 days a week. I was now working out a total of 5 days a week with some yoga. Ready to jump right into baby making I began to realize how much my husband was suffering. After much talk and even a fight or two we found ourselves in counseling. Before this I thought counseling was for “couples who really needed it.” Just like those ladies on the thread – it would never be me. I now know ALL COUPLES NEED IT. Learning how to communicate in a loving, healthy, compassionate way is something we all should continue to cultivate. You will be amazed at how much more the two of you will reconnect and can love one another on a different level when you really listen.

Shortly before the start of my third cycle I began to reevaluate my career goals. Without thinking about it I was looking for programs to continue my education and get my Masters. A year before this moment I would have never even contemplated I was smart or strong enough to go back to school. Today, I know if I can survive infertility I can survive anything!

I’m volunteering with an organization whose mission and purpose is to support moms and families who have experienced loss. I’ve reconnected with atleast 10 of my family or friends. I even hosted a BBQ in July – realizing nothing will ever be perfect so I’m going to celebrate what is…

My husband has lost 60 pounds from us not eating out. In fact we bought a grill and now eating has become a fun experience in our home. Thanks to working out I have been able to get my meds down to 1 and decrease the dose.

Today, I may hold my baby in my heart and I know I will one day hold one in my arms. I know surviving this third cycle no matter the outcome will be hell. However, I also know when I get pregnant my body is ready, my heart is ready, my mind is ready, and my spirit is ready. My spirit is singing, my body is proud, my heart is open, and mind can see all the opportunity and possibility which await me. If I had never hit rock bottom or Noah never touched my life, would I know joy the way I know it now? Would I survive the journey that awaits me? Would I be experiencing trust for the first time in my life? I could “what if” all day long but instead in Noah’s honor – I live on 

Somewhere in the hopeful hopelessness

It is almost unbearable, completely unbelievable, and down right heart breaking that here we are – AGAIN!

As a child, I wasn’t afraid of too much. I think mostly because my parents encouraged me to be adventures but in truth it was because I believed that nothing could hurt me if my father was there. Without him there I felt the pain of the world, the truth that I wasn’t invincible, the reality that monsters do exist.

So when there was a thunder storm or even the possibility I would run into my parents room and slip between them in bed, hunker down, and know as long as I was there nothing could harm me. The strength of my father the loving arms of my mother, between the two I knew I was safe.

I would like to say that this was only as a “child” but in truth it lasted into my teenage years, and uh there might of been that storm 2 weeks before my wedding – but we wont go too much into that “one time.”

So here- we are- AGAIN! The moments before an impending storm, the word is in the air but God, that same childhood fear weighs heavy on my bones. It’s paralyzing because as we drive in the car and the discussion starts – I have no “fix” for the real life pain I’m about to feel, the pain I’m about to remember, and the pain I just can’t escape.

It’s four weeks after our miscarriage, they said it would get easier but each day is just a reminder of the little heart I once had beating inside me, relying on me, and needing me. I NEED to have this conversation and my husband NEEDS not too. It’s like hearing that first crack of thunder and my parents door is locked, knowing the monster has been released and my dads not there. Its like crying in the hallway, banging on the door, knowing the solution is just one step in front of me & yet so far out of reach.

I reach for his hand, the tears are already flowing, I am able to get out the words in a cracked whispered voice – “so whats next?” He stares silently at the road pretending he didn’t hear me…

Again, I say “so where do we go from here.” As I wait for some kind of life like response I start to wonder – what is it that I even want at this point?

What is this impending storm doing to me? Will this be the scariest part? Because waiting for the storm is always the hardest part. When your actually living your nightmare you have no time to think, no time to weigh out decisions. only time to react, to live in the moment, to make the best of it.

When the thunder storm was over, my parents would take me outside, they would show me the rainbow. At the time I didn’t realize the significance but now I know it was to give me a concrete visual that life is scary, storms will happen, no matter how much you prepare yourself, you may never be ready – and to show me that it is only after the worst of storms that the most beautiful things follow.

He looks at me blankly, his lips pushed out, his eyes meeting mine. My stomach is tight, as much as I know him, I’m never prepared for this conversation. Finally, he says “lets just put back our last one.” I have so many questions, so many “wells” and” what ifs”, but I know he’s done and truthfully I’m so drained “waiting” for the storm, I cant even push this conversation any further.

So here we are — AGAIN! In a hopeless situation with hopeful dreams and the best of intentions, trying with all our might to not constantly be fearing the impending storm & praying this is the last one…

The Darkest Days

Weeks after my miscarriage, the rest of the world had moved on. I was expected to perform at my job as if nothing had happened, family dinners felt much the same except for the emptiness I permanently carried with me, my dogs liked me again, and my friends wanted me to join in events just like before. It even felt at times that my husband had moved on, forgotten, buried the thought of our baby deep in his heart where he may never again revisit.

I planned to plant a white weeping cherry willow tree. Something about this tree felt sad and happy all at the same time. The way the branches wept reminded me of tears and the long overreaching love of a mother; protective, beautiful, and sacred. Yes, plant a tree I will…

I planned to write a letter to my baby. To tell them everything in my heart I felt I needed to say. To give myself room to remember & say goodbye. Yes, a letter I think I will…

I planned to continue moving forward, not moving on, because well – no matter what anyone says; the pain never gets better and you never move on.

Though I planned to do all these things, to remember, to cope, to mourn. I didn’t plan on feeling just as bad as I felt. I didn’t plan on fighting the thoughts of worthlessness. I didn’t struggle with blame because truly in my heart I knew I did all that I could to make the pregnancy successful from day 1. However, I struggled many nights wondering why I was continuing this fight?

By continuing the fight I mean life. I reached out to my insurance I was sure it was time to see someone. I was sure what I was feeling wasn’t really normal, I was sure that though grief can consume every fiber of your being my grief was making me wonder was it worth being?

The questions the thoughts they really scared me. I never actually considered ending my life or not moving forward but the question  was it worth it weighed so heavily on my mind.

Over two years of doctors, blood work, scans, painful testing, sperm samples, home equity loan, & 4 different clinics- I couldn’t help but wonder was it really worth it?

They say when you see that beautiful baby and hold them for the first time “it will all be worth it.” But what if that moment never happens, what if IT never feels worth it?

What if all this time, money, energy, sacrifice, brings us nothing but bad memories and heartache?

At your first visit to the fertility clinic they do not tell you the devastating truth that some families will be patients for years and some will stop coming after years, not because they had a baby but because IT was never going to be possible.

So here I am weeks after my miscarriage with no idea if any of this will be worth IT but still giving it my all, still pushing to the next cycle, & remembering IT all happens for a reason.

Mother’s Day with no baby in my arms

Today I’ll celebrate not only the beautiful mother who I call mine 

but for 

the life that left this earth 

leaving me behind. 

Mothers come in many forms, 

I loved my baby just as you love yours.

 I’ll never hear them say my name 

but I’m a mother just the same. 

I’ll never hold them in my arms,

 but the bond we shared will always be ours.

Life is short and sometimes bitter sweet

forever my baby in heaven- the place we will meet. 

Mother’s Day after miscarriage is like setting my whole body on fire and watching everyone around me watch me burn and they’re not allowed to put me out. While all along asking me if I’m okay?

It’s watching Mother’s Day burnt breakfast pictures surface my newsfeed –
knowing that may never be me.

It’s waking up at 6am with an elephant upon my chest,
knowing my personal strength will soon be put to the test.

It’s reassuring everyone else your okay, when you do not even know how your going to make it through the day.

It’s holding back all you want to say,
because no-one will get it anyway.

It’s feeling broken and completely unglued,
there’s so much of my story that no-one ever knew.

It’s realizing though I am a mother,
I’m a grieving mother
and this holiday has no place for me.

It’s knowing today I will be the girl with the group with no baby in her arms.
Everyone will remind me “someday this will be yours.”

Every sign, commercial, restaurant, radio station, and social media outlet –
well we know they wont let us forget.

So before you ask someone if she’s a mother be prepared that we come in all forms.

Mother’s Day weekend after miscarriage

I cannot think of anything more painful than Mothers Day after miscarriage. Last week this time I didn’t realize just how painful this day would be for me. However, yesterday as I prepared to go to a family party it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Weeks earlier, I had continued to remind myself that once I got to this weekend we would be just about out of first trimester and all that stress would almost be over. That by the time I prepared to go to this party and sequel of family events I myself would be rocking a cute baby bump and probably my first maternity shirt.

Now I stood in the mirror wondering what to wear?  It was spring and 50 degrees with a downpour. I reached in my closet I pulled out the outfit I wore to my transfer. Somewhat of a dress with a pair of leggings. It could be dressed up or dressed down and this seemed like the best option looking at the weather. I closed the bathroom door to give myself a once over and the tears began to flow. Here I was wearing the outfit I wore to greet my child, I remember putting it on and thinking “this is going to be the lucky one.” I remember watching it hang in my closet for weeks and never touching it as if it was holy. Now today, the weight of this 1oz dress crushed my ribs, I was finding it hard to breathe, hard to think, and even harder to stop the tears.

Suddenly, all those emotions that had subsided the thought that I was doing “well” it all came crashing down. I walked back into my closet, looking for something – anything but everything was becoming blurry. The most intense anger took over my body I turned to the wall and repeatedly punched it like a crazy woman. My body was so numb that somehow the pain in my hand actually felt good, no-one could take that from me. When it became too much I fell to my knees amongst all my clothes a hamper by my head. I crawled into the tightest little ball and when my husband woke up and found me there you can believe he was a little bit in shock and very confused that I was refusing to come out of the closet.

It took me over an hour to stop the tears. Somewhere between punching the wall and crying out my entire body weight in water I decided I was wearing that outfit. I’m not sure if I was just too exhausted to look for another? or if I felt some type of guilt of trying to forget my baby and that day we shared?

Arriving at my sisters graduation party I felt like complete crap. Here it was an amazing weekend for her and I had to coach myself here. Anti social is an understatement, I found my way to the alcohol and a comfy place on the couch and judged every mother in the room.

I felt alone. Even surrounded by my family it was as if I was expected at this point to just be me – like this weekend shouldn’t hurt. As if everyone was tired of my infertility being apart of every holiday. The horrible truth is for them it might be holidays but for me it’s every second, of every day, of every month. I excused myself to the bathroom twice where my husband followed to console me.

I usually am the one to plan Mothers Day and doing my best between all that has been going on I had reached out to my siblings to see what was going on. My sister was consumed with graduation and so she wasn’t sure about anything, my brother who is the one with the baby had talked to my dad about the zoo. Part of me felt relieved, while the other excluded. I got no say in Mothers Day anymore because I wasn’t recognized as a mother? Or was it that they were trying to make it easier for me by just showing up? Either way, I thought of the day unfolding at the zoo. My sister-in-law, her mom, my mom; both grandma’s competing for the 1 year olds attention & recognition of being grandma and it made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t know if I could do it.

I stayed the appropriate amount of time and when we got in the car I sobbed a good half hour. My husband tried but nothing was working this time. Arriving home I opened my mailbox to my best friends invite for her sons first birthday. These are the moments I look up to the sky and truly have to ask God, why? Even when I make it to my safe place, there it is- the reminder that I have no invites to send and cake smashing to plan.

I feel super negative going into today. Like an ungrateful child who didn’t get what she wanted. I have an amazing mother who I should be more than happy to celebrate and instead I’m mourning the child whose not here. I have alot of judgement with “what I should be feeling.” While realizing this process is not cut and dry. I’m just praying I come out on the other end as someone I will still recognize.

Island of Lost

Miscarriage. Thats right I said it- I shouldn’t because it makes the room uncomfortable. I shouldn’t talk about it, I shouldn’t cry about it, I shouldn’t get the proper closure I need because my baby’s life was never really seen.

Life at conception is only life when your fighting a cause
otherwise the mothers who never held their children
should say nothing at all.

My baby was less because their fingers never grew
because their heart stopped beating
and their life was one you never knew

Don’t dare mutter the words d&c
I never heard them until it happened to me

I’m walking this path completely alone
no matter what anyone says
I never got to bring my baby home

I cant sleep because the dreams remind me
of the baby thats no longer inside me

Its dark and lonely on this island of lost
having a baby is nothing like I thought

I would do anything to change this pain
instead I’m left having to accept this is part
of the infertile game.

Our Physical Bond is Now Gone

IMG_6362There I sat squatting over a cup in the bathroom as I tried to retrieve a urine sample. Having not had anything to drink since 12am made this relatively easy task a challenge. My mother yelled into the bathroom telling me “they don’t need a sample.” I then realized the sample was to confirm no chance of pregnancy and for the first time I would be sad to hear that HCG had been found in my system. I took the cup and threw it against the wall-like that changed the fact that in the following moments I would go through the most difficult procedure of my life. I composed myself and exited the bathroom.

The tone at the admission desk changed. She now realized just why I was there.

I stood in the elevator as the admissions lady pushed the button to floor two. She told me the elevator would open from the back. She wished me “good luck” as she exited the elevator. In five minutes this lady had sent me from moderately composed to a complete mess.

I stepped off the elevator a cut out window in the wall, the smell of surgery hit me, and the tears just kept flowing. I turned into a corner ashamed that I couldn’t stop crying, embarrassed that I was here- that I had failed my baby. More than anything I was terrified.

My mom was so comforting. She had been with me since I found out the day before. She understood because she herself had 3 miscarriages. I was the baby conceived after her first D&C. So as painful as it was for me to live through this terrible event I know it was brining up memories for her and a deeper pain that now her baby was going through the same.

The nurse began doing the routine. Name, DOB, blood pressure, temp, directions on how to put on the robe- which by the way I’m an expert at by now. Med list, allergies, etc. Finally the doctor appears. He holds my hand and tells me to remember this doesn’t effect future chances of getting pregnant. Sadly, this is part of the process and think how many steps you had to overcome to get here. Yes, my thoughts exactly, the very expensive, emotional process I had to go through to get here.

I told him I needed an ultrasound before we proceeded. He looked at me questionably. He told me that I needed to understand there was no way to have a viable pregnancy once HCG levels begin to decrease. I didn’t care I needed to see my baby one more time. So he said “okay, can we get an ultrasound machine up here?” It took the staff another an hour to locate one and prep but the doctor kindly performed it – with no change from the day before,  I whispered goodbye baby. He looked me in the eyes and asked me if I was ready to proceed and through tears I said “yes, I’m fine.”

The nurse grabbed a warm blanket, walked me to the bathroom, took my glasses from my face and walked me down the longest hall of my life. With each step the hall got colder, my legs felt like jello, all I could think is “why?” Why was this happening, why my baby, just why…

We made it to the room. It was a narrow table, much like the one they have you sit on for egg retrieval. The end of the table is made to bend right under the hips. So they have you sit in the donut shape at the end they tell you its  “like sitting at the edge of a pool” – What !? This is nothing like sitting at the edge of a pool. They take the one gown off, my whole backside is exposed. Theres about 9 people in the room. There is no such thing as dignity when it comes to infertility.

I lay on the table, there are small narrow tables to place my arms on the side. All at once each person begins their job; telling me what they are doing before they do it. I feel things being placed on my legs, blood pressure cuff going on my arm, leads going on my chest, I’m sobbing. Beyond sobbing, the kind of cry that happens when your crying so hard you don’t even make a sound, the kind of cry thats felt from completely within. My heart literally is hurting, its aching a pain I’ve never known. In the next few moments they will take the only physical bond I have left with my baby.

I know this has to happen but every part of me hurts. The nurse tells me to hold her hand. I think I held her hand so hard it probably hurt her for days. The doctor comes in- he begins to talk to me about an island, one with many palm trees, in a place I have never heard. It’s simple and stupid but it calms me down. Maybe it was his story or the drugs they were pumping into my IV – whatever it was I felt it was so kind that he didn’t let me go to sleep sobbing. That he gave me something hopeful and beautiful to hold onto. That after all his years of experience and probably many D&C’s he remembered how painful it was for me and that it was my first one.

I woke-up completely forgetting what had just happened. I was cramping and told the nurse omg I’m cramping am I having a miscarriage? She didn’t answer me. I pulled the covers because I felt wet- a feeling I have been on high alert for  over the last two months. There it was bright red blood everywhere, I began sobbing, I now realized all over again that yes I had miscarried and now my baby was really gone. The nurse got me  into surgical underwear, I was in so much pain, at some point they administered medication to help. I kept telling her I was in more pain because honestly I wanted drugs that would knock me out. Would make me not remember any of this painful experience. Truthfully there are no drugs that will ever be able to do that for anyone.

My husband was at home waiting for me. He got done work at 3pm. Since it was an emergency and scheduled less that 24hours from when it happened it would be hard for him to get coverage as he is a nurse. On top of that I figured I had to go through this experience I had no choice but I didn’t have to make him witness it. My friends continue to tell me over and over again to not just worry about my husband that I need to worry about me too. The problem is how can I not worry about him? I know what I can handle. Honestly, I don’t know if he could handle watching me go through that procedure. Selfishly, I want to protect him so he doesn’t get discouraged with this process. So that his decision to go through with our next transfer isn’t delayed because he witnessed the emotional hell I went through and how it ended.

So in true perspective. I’m not a great wife, I’m a selfish wife and I have guilt.

He had my couch ready for me, he had purchased a dozen pink roses, he placed them near the frame with the ultrasound and the candle we lit which burned the entire weekend. My twitter ladies were so wonderful as they facilitated a wave of light the day of my D&C, this helped so much and I will never be able to express what that meant to me.

I never thought when I started this blog that someday it would be filled with the pain of a miscarriage and D&C. The one piece of comfort I’m thriving on is that this was always our plan. God had this journey written in stone from the moment I was conceived and so that means I am now one step closer to the baby we will bring home .

The Scars of Hope


The scars of hope I wear them well
At first glance you may not tell

An average girl, average frame,
Wishing for an average story
With no-one to blame

Hope and pain
feel the same
In this infertile game

Sweaters in my car
to hide the morning blood draws
Morning coffee not quite the same
because it’s decaf which I made

I’d take a seat
but my backside is sore
Each night I bend over injecting more

Did someone just turn up the heat?
Progesterone is no friend of mine
It tricks my body & my mind

Baby pictures make me tear
But these aren’t complaints you want to hear

Sure, I’m doing just fine
Truth – I’m going out of my mind

Sorry calendar is completely full
oh man, do I need a refill on my menopur?

Don’t  worry it’s just the same
I don’t really care about your baby’s name