Significant Tears {A Journey through Infertility}

Though many tears accompanied my two-year journey through infertility, there are two specific crying sessions that remain deeply implanted in my memories of those tough times.

When we started trying for a baby, we were more than ready. I had been the one to “wait” for certain things: decent jobs, a house, a community. After trying for our baby for one month, I took my first pregnancy test and was bummed it was negative. My husband said to me, “Bunny, we just started. Give it time.” But I didn’t want to.

A year and a half later we had an uplifting visit with a reproductive endocrinologist, who discovered our “issues” were caused by my fluctuating, inconsistent, sometimes non-existent cycle. A plan was mapped out, and our first round of fertility treatments consisted simply of monitoring my cycle via ultrasound and an intrauterine insemination (IUI). It failed.

The afternoon I received the disappointing phone call after morning blood work, I was just devastated. If all we were dealing with was my cycle, then why, after this long, after this close monitoring, was I still not pregnant?

My husband, who carried a lot of my emotional weight on his shoulders these two years, was close to running out of words. And this particular afternoon, he had a hard time finding any to console me. He was even having a hard time trying to find words to console me. He was worn out.

So I placed myself in our tiny bedroom closet, where I sat cross-legged on the floor with enough room for our large black Labrador, Roxy, to lay in front of me with her head resting on my right knee. And I cried. I bawled. I heaved. I cried, and I cried well.

In the following months we endured two more IUIs with injections of hormones. Both cycles failed.

I then found myself back on the table in the doctor’s office. I was naked, covered only by the paper gown, and I was waiting for the ultrasound to begin our next treatment cycle. The only option that remained was In Vitro Fertilization (IVF).

Sitting on that cold table in that silent room, I knew we did not have the funds to move forward with IVF. I did not have the courage. I did not have the strength.

The nurse had seen me, but the room was empty as I waited on my doctor. I stepped off the table and changed back into my clothes. I walked out, mumbled something to the receptionist, exited the medical building, and walked straight to my car, heated by the strong summer sun.

In that heat, I cried. I bawled. I heaved. I cried, and I cried well.

Our journey through treatments ended there. I started my next period the day my nephew was born, my beautiful sister-in-law’s first child. She is one of my best friends, and it was hard even to rejoice in her pregnancy. But Kenny was born, and he was just perfect. I felt my heart lift in my chest when I held him.

Twenty-seven days later I conceived our first son (crazy, long cycle, again). And I had my first ultrasound – and I heard and saw his heart beat! – the day after sweet Kenny was baptized. We then shared our news with our family and welcomed all the prayers in the world.

Nine months later, Casey James was born healthy and perfect.

Every year during Infertility Awareness Month, my mind travels back to “those” days. I crossed the bridge and sustained a healthy pregnancy. Many do also. Many others do not. And I rejoice and cry with each of them, still.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, we are dedicated to raising awareness and educating our community about the varying types of infertility and the many options available. Our hope is that this series opens, provides inspiration, and moves us all to a deeper sense of compassion. So, please join us as real local moms open up and share their stories all throughout the week.

Read more Infertility Awareness stories and perspectives from Corpus Christi area moms.