After some appointments and phone calls, my clinic agreed to try at least one IUI before we start IVF. We were so excited for a chance at something less invasive and less intense.
We walked down the hallway to my clinic the day of the procedure and tapped our coffees together and said “Let’s go make a baby!”
Once in the waiting room, the nervousness built. It was our first IUI. I didn’t know what to expect. Time went by at snail speed.
We finally got called back and before the procedure even took place we were given bad news and told that they would go ahead with the procedure, but that we should move forward with IVF. It wasn’t impossible that the IUI would work, but it wasn’t looking likely.
I shifted my eyes to my husband, only able to speak through our facial expressions. We both felt defeated, almost saying with our eyes, “Why are we even going to do this, then?”
But we did.
We left the clinic in silence, a polar opposite of the way we entered, faces drawn and just ready to go scoop up our one miracle from daycare, almost feeling as if our time could’ve been better served just loving on him instead.
We felt what we felt over the weekend and then did what we always do, brushed ourselves off and gave it to God. In doing so, we had hope, so much hope. Hope in the impossible. Hope in God’s abilities. We had invested so much more in this cycle than any before. As much as we initially chalked it up to a loss, we couldn’t stay in that and found ourselves anxious to see what the future held.
It failed. And it hurts a whole hell of a lot more than we imagined. Becoming part of the failed fertility treatment club is not something you can prepare your heart for.
I feel so much more deeply now, after having experienced this, for the couples who have been through several failed treatments.
It’s a sense of grieving something that never was. We invested so much into this cycle. We did everything right. I took all my meds on time. We did the injections as instructed. I avoided taking pain meds, fever reducers, or decongestants during the TWW other than Tylenol despite having a gnarly upper respiratory virus. It just didn’t work; the odds were against us.
But I’m still proud that we were hopeful. It hurts right now. It hurts bad. But having hope shows we leave our trust in the One whom the wind and seas obey, and for that I’m thankful.
We’ll pick ourselves back up, because that’s what we do. But for now, we’ll sit with these feelings and try to process them as best we can.
“Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5
A Life Worth Living 