Imagine me, perched on my deck with a glass of wine in hand, my 8-pound pup lounging like a curious little alien on my lap. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, and we look perfectly at ease. Fast forward a few hours, and I’m at a lively bar with my husband, Jake, and our friends, laughing uncontrollably over some hilarious anecdotes as we sip on muddled fruit cocktails.
But here’s the kicker: just a few hours before this, I was at a fertility clinic undergoing a battery of tests to figure out why we weren’t able to conceive. I spent four hours there, and when a doctor finally took me into a bare-walled office, she delivered news that shattered my world. “Unfortunate,” she called it, explaining that carrying a baby to term might lead to multiple miscarriages. My heart sank. I felt completely deflated.
Next, I find myself standing with Jake and two friends in front of an RV we rented, ready for an epic cross-country adventure. Eighteen days filled with quirky cafes, ballerina stretches in the Badlands, and breathtaking views at Mount Rushmore and the Grand Tetons. Every snapshot tells the story of our escapade, but what you can’t see is the determination I poured into planning this trip. I needed to escape reality and ponder life without children. Four days in, while posing with a giant ear of corn, I received a call from a new specialist. A 3D ultrasound revealed that I had been misdiagnosed. My uterus had issues, but they were fixable. Suddenly, hope flickered back to life.
Then, there’s me at a friend’s wedding, laughing and dancing like the carefree college kid I once was. I squeeze into an alumni photo, posing with old classmates, one of whom is pregnant. But behind that smile, I’m out of breath. Just moments before, Jake and I hurriedly returned to our car, parked between two enormous trees, to administer the necessary injections for our first round of IVF. We had just endured a failed IUI, and the emotional rollercoaster was exhausting.
Fast forward to me in a festive Christmas dress with Jake, his eyes half-closed in our one good holiday photo. We appear eager to host our annual party, with luminaries lighting our path. What you can’t see is that I’m recovering from my second egg retrieval earlier that day. They had retrieved 30 eggs, but the bloating and pain were real. I worried about the side effects of not resting, sneaking Gatorade as if I were a teenager hiding booze. I wanted to soak in the joy around me, but I felt increasingly hollow.
Later, I’m at a happy hour with Jake and my brother-in-law, and the bar is deserted. Who goes to happy hour on a Tuesday? What you can’t see is that these drinks are just a way to cheer ourselves up after another unsuccessful IVF attempt. Jake tells me he doesn’t care if we have kids; he just wants me to be happy. But I’ve always dreamed of being a mom and seeing him as a dad.
Scrolling through my feed, I’m displaying a teal manicure and chuckling about “Gone Girl.” I post a cute picture of my dog sprawled across my lap, but what you don’t know is that I just completed my first frozen embryo transfer earlier that day. Physically and emotionally, I’m paralyzed, too scared to move off the couch.
Then, I announce my pregnancy at 22 weeks in a Colonial Williamsburg gift shop. I look beaming, but what you can’t see is that I’m terrified it could all come crashing down. After a threatened miscarriage and bedrest, I still feel like everything could be snatched away from me at any moment, but I post it anyway. It’s nice to look normal sometimes.
In the hospital, I’m holding my baby for the first time. I caption it, “It’s been a long road, but we made it.” I look pale yet proud. However, the truth is my delivery didn’t go as planned; my placenta attached to the wall of my uterus, leading to significant blood loss. You can’t see the subsequent surgeries or the vacant look in my eyes after refusing a blood transfusion amidst the chaos.
Next, I’m posing with my daughter during the holidays, surrounded by my in-laws visiting from Washington. We’re about to open gifts, but what you can’t see is that I’m experiencing a miscarriage. While their plane landed around midnight, I was at home praying through vomiting, only to start bleeding and lose the baby after finally getting pregnant.
Later, at the beach, I’m posing with my daughter, both of us showing off our bellies. I’m a calm and smiling 17 weeks pregnant. What you can’t see is the relief that washes over me. Maybe I can finally close this difficult chapter. I feel happy, scared, and completely exhausted, yet ready for whatever comes next.
That’s what you can’t see.
For more insights on fertility and home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the CDC. If you’re exploring options for artificial insemination, you might find helpful information on fertility boosters for men at Make a Mom. And for even more tips on home insemination kits, find additional information here.
Summary:
This reflective piece dives into the emotional rollercoaster of infertility, detailing the often hidden struggles behind seemingly perfect moments captured on social media. From facing heartbreaking diagnoses to navigating the ups and downs of IVF, the author reveals that beneath every smile and joyous occasion, there are untold stories of pain, hope, and resilience.