Most people come to the crossroads of adoption because of infertility.
We were no different.
The first time I walked into my doctor’s office to talk about my
infertility, I was twenty-one. I was
thirty-nine when D’s adoption finalized.
Seventeen years. Granted, there
were breaks in there. I was married at
eighteen, moved out at twenty-five and was divorced at twenty-six, so there were a couple of years here and there that I wasn’t actively pursuing
pregnancy. But, only a couple. I married John a year after the divorce, when I was
twenty-seven. Knowing that I had not
been able to get pregnant before, made me start looking into infertility
solutions pretty soon after we were married.
Anyone who has been through the infertility rollercoaster knows it is
an emotionally, physically and financially draining process. One of these days, I should get all my
medical records together and lay out the long list of tests and procedures I
endured over a seventeen year span.
Biopsies, laparoscopy, medication, dye tests, x-rays, cat scans,
ultrasounds, probing of all kinds—mostly of the uncomfortable kind, artificial
insemination, lots of ovulation tests and timed “activity” of all kinds….and
the list goes on. I went through several
doctors as each came to the same conclusion—“we don’t know what’s causing your
infertility and we’ve done all we know how to do”. Tears.
Next!
In the Fall of 2004, I met a couple of women who were going through the
Invitro process. It was the first time I
had really considered it. Years of
failed fertility had left me with little hope, but hearing that this had worked
for them gave me a glimmer that I held on to tightly. I scheduled my consultation, and off we went…quickly. Our doctor had been on the forefront of the
invitro technology here in Southern California, and at the recommendation of a
patient of his, we moved forward. The
next eight months would prove to be more difficult than I had expected.
It started out normal. I was
checked out to make sure I was healthy and able to go through the process, and
though I was heavier than I am now by about thirty pounds, I was still deemed
strong and healthy enough proceed. So,
the medication began. It starts with
Follistem, which does just what it sounds like it does—it stimulates the
follicle, or egg, development. I was
supposed to have been on it for about ten days.
On day three I could hardly stand up and was in a lot of pain. I called the doctor’s office to tell them
that I thought something was wrong. They
said that it wasn’t abnormal to feel some discomfort, but after explaining to
them that I was way beyond “discomfort” they had me come in for a check-up. I have a pretty high pain tolerance, but I
couldn’t even stand up straight at this point.
After feeling my abdomen, they did an ultrasound. I wish I could find the picture of that
ultrasound (Google “hyperstimulated ovaries” and you can see what it looked
like!). I had an over-the-top reaction
to the Follistem, which would set the tone for the rest of this whole experience. Ovaries are normally the size of a
walnut. Mine were now “kissing ovaries”. They had grown so large that they were
touching each other. Each one was bout five inches
long by about two to three inches tall and wide.
They were full of eggs. The
ultrasound picture looked like a spider web.
Tons of eggs in there of various sizes pushed against each other,
causing lots of pain. We stopped the
Follistem.
Here is what is supposed to happen.
The Follistem stimulates egg development and your ovaries “recruit” a
few eggs into the ovaries and then the medication helps them to grow to the
right size for fertilization. Usually
this means a few eggs, which are then harvested (via minor surgery and a nice
long needle through your cervix to suck them out), fertilized by
hand, and then the fertilized ones are put back in with the hope that they
will nestle in and begin to grow and you will be officially pregnant. But this isn’t what happened.
You would think that producing lots of eggs would be a good thing, but
it’s not. What happened is that instead
of taking a few eggs and nourishing them properly, my body kept
recruiting. So, my ovaries were filled
with lots of eggs in various stages of development—some were the right size,
but many were past their prime or too little, and they were all packed in so
tightly, fighting for nourishment, that none of them were particularly
healthy. The other thing that happens,
is that because you have so many eggs that are all affecting hormone
production, different hormone levels skyrocketed. We almost had to scrap the entire process and
start over. Hormone levels had to be
within a certain range, and I was about seven times higher than I needed to be,
so we just waited for them to drop, hoping they would slip into a normal range
within the time frame needed for everything to still be viable. This also meant I was getting my blood tested
every day, which meant a fifty-mile round trip and needles every day, not to mention I felt awful and was in a lot of pain. On the last day possible,
my levels dropped into the right range, and we scheduled the surgery. It is minor surgery, but it still requires
being put under full anesthesia. The
doctor recovered forty-three eggs when all was said and done. Forty-three.
About fourteen times what it should have been.
Then, we waited three days while they fertilized our eggs, and prepared
to put them back in. I felt so sick, but
figured it was just all the hormone manipulation and stress. It wasn’t.
I went back in, excited to be putting the eggs in, and the doctor came in
with more bad news. I had Ovarian
Hyperstimulation Syndrome. The condensed
explanation is that the drugs had caused “leaky” blood vessels, and
essentially, my body was taking the water from my blood and depositing it into
my chest and abdomen. So, my blood was
getting thicker and my abdomen was filling with fluid. The problem with elective procedures is that
your insurance doesn’t cover complications that arise because of it. My doctor wanted to admit me, but knew it
would be a huge expense. He gave me the
option, but we chose to monitor it for a few days and then if it got to what he
considered to be a dangerous level, he would have no choice but to admit
me. The solution? Drink lots and lots of fluids. Seven to Eight liters a day of anything I
could stomach. My stomach was
distended. I had to pee every forty-five
minutes or so. I looked like complete
hell. And I felt worse. It was one of the worst weeks of my
life. On top of that, I had to go in to
have my blood drawn every day. Sunday
morning, my doctor called and said he had been awake through the night worried
about me and wondering if he’d made the right call. The problem with “leaky” blood vessels, is
that thick blood leads to clots, which are life-threatening. He gave me one more night and said if my
blood hadn’t shown improvement the next morning, I would have to be
admitted. I was so spent
physically. I just could not drink the
amount I needed to. My poor husband was
trying to keep me on target, but I was done.
The next morning, the tests looked better, and I began to improve. I was still anxious to put the eggs back in,
but they said we would have to wait a few months to let my ovaries and
everything shrink back to normal size, and allow my body time to recover.
For three weeks, I made the drive every day to have blood drawn. It’s a good thing I have hoses for veins,
because by the time it was over, I looked like a drug addict, and the thought
of the needle going into my bruised arms again just made me cringe. Eight fertilized eggs were frozen, but they
weren’t the healthiest of eggs. He
called them B+ eggs. I was used to being
a A+ student! Putting them back in was
another saga. Ideally, you put eggs back
in right after you harvest, because your body is naturally at the right stage
for them to be received and implanted.
But, when you use frozen eggs, you have to get your body back to that
stage in an even more unnatural way.
More drugs. And these were
worse. I had daily shots in my stomach
and shots in my hips. The stomach ones
were actually not too bad. The needle
was small, and John was able to do them.
The hip ones were so painful and cause huge knots almost
immediately. My friend was a physician’s
assistant, and he did those for me. The
needle was bigger, and after everyone knotted it, but became more difficult and
much, much more painful. I used to dread
those, they hurt so badly. I don’t
remember exactly how long I had to do those—close to two weeks or so. These affected me emotionally more than any
of the other drugs had. It was the first
time in my marriage that I felt angry and could have driven off into the sunset
and never returned. I knew it was the
drugs talking, but it took a toll on me.
I don’t ever want to feel that way again.
Despite the physical and emotional toll on my body, we were able to go
back in as planned and have the embryos put back in. By the time my eight B+ eggs thawed out, only
three of them had survived. My doctor said
normally he would only put two back in because of the high risks associated
with triplet pregnancies. But, because of
the low quality of the eggs, he left it up to me, and we chose to put all three
in. He wanted me to promise that if all
three took, we would consider selective reduction to ensure a healthier
pregnancy. What a shock that was! I am not a fan of abortion in any form,
although I do believe that in the case where the mother’s life is in danger,
then she should be able to make that choice.
I spoke to a few people with my same religious beliefs to see how they
felt about that choice should that occur.
They all assured me that in a case where my life or the life of these
other babies was in danger, that we rely on the expertise of these doctors to
help us with that decision, and that it would be okay no matter what I
decided. I felt fine with that, except
that I just didn’t want to have to make that choice. Not because I felt any guilt at aborting, but
because I didn’t want to give up even one child.
I wouldn’t have to face that decision, though. None of the embryos took. I wasn’t pregnant. Again.
I was very sad and disheartened.
The three women I knew who had recently gone through Invitro had all had
healthy babies. I was the only one who
failed. I know it wasn’t my fault, but I
was very sad. By this time, six months
had passed since we had begun the process, and I was worn out. Physically and emotionally drained. We met with our doctor and he said that if we
wanted to try again, he felt like he had a better handle on how my body would
respond now, and that we could make some adjustments and hopefully be more
successful. He said I was certainly the
exception and that he only had maybe one patient a year that reacted to all the
drugs as badly as I did. I didn’t know
if I wanted to do it again, but John really wanted to try, so we did.
We dropped the rest of our money on a second round. This time, I only produced a paltry
twenty-three eggs! Still seven to eight
times more than I should, but a much healthier round. Still only about eight were viable. I didn’t go into Hyperstimulation and we were
able to put three embryos back in within a few days of harvesting, which was
another round of day surgery and anesthesia.
John was so excited and hopeful.
I was not so hopeful.
Disappointment after disappointment had left me too cautious and a
little hopeless. We waited a few days
and I was sick to my stomach. He had
considered these “A+” eggs and as good a round as we could hope for with the
way my body reacts to everything. I was
working in the garage with a friend of mine the day I went in for the pregnancy
test. It was a blood test, since it was
so early in the process. I couldn’t
focus on anything. I was painting and
had my big overalls and work boots on. I
finally told her that I was tired, and wanted to go lie down, so she went
home. I went inside and saw the light
flashing on the answering machine. My
heart sank. I was afraid of what the
message would be. My fears would be
confirmed. I wasn’t pregnant. I crawled into bed, boots and all and just
cried. I couldn’t even speak. It would be about four days before I said
much of anything. John and I holed up in
our house. I just couldn’t face anyone
or anything. I have dealt with a lot of
emotionally difficult situations in my life and had never just shut down. But, everything came to a head that day, and
I shut down. I knew I would
recover. I always did. I just needed that time to mourn, and I took
it. I had great friends who understood
and didn’t push. They knew when to leave
me alone and they knew when to step in.
They would be that same great strength for me when we faced an even more
devastating moment in having to give our first almost-adopted son back to his
birth father. That experience was even
more tragic for us because we had gone through this one. But, maybe in some ways, this prepared us for
dealing with that one.
Loss is a difficult thing. I’ve
learned a lot about myself and what I am capable of. Those who went through all of this with us,
were part of a small handful of people who could comprehend what an incredible
day it was when we finalized our adoption.
The greatest joys can only be as great as your greatest sorrow. Opposition in all things. And these difficult moments made having D that much more of an incredible miracle.
 |
Our little miracle. D came to us through adoption, and what
a dream he has been. Born May 2009. Took him home July 2009. |
About two months later, we attended an adoption seminar and prepared to
start the process. We decided we were
done with fertility issues. What good
would it be to have a child if my body was so damaged by the process, or the
emotional battle took too great a toll on our marriage? What would be the joy in that? So, I came to terms with the fact that I
would never experience pregnancy or have a child that was part of me biologically, and I was fine with that. I
just wanted a child, and it didn’t matter what he or she looked like. It would be four more years before that dream
would be realized, but what a dream it would be.
