It’s been 30 months since I began my fertility journey. That’s certainly no world record, but it is a heck of a long time. I’ve undergone three full IVF cycles, I-honestly-don’t-remember-how-many frozen IVF cycles, four at-home inseminations, a 17-week miscarriage of our twins, transvaginal ultrasounds, hormone injections, suppositories, more pills than seems healthy, acupuncture for fertility, alternative therapies for fertility, diets for fertility, tests for fertility, uterine probing, ovary probing, Fallopian tubes probing, blood tests — good God, the list goes on.
That’s what’s next on my fertility journey.
Writing those words — I’m done — is both scary and relieving at the same time.
Scary because I’m not fully sure I want to be done. Scary because I feel like I need to be done. Scary because I feel like maybe I’m quitting. Scary because I feel like being done is right for me. Scary because this is the story I tell, and if I’m done, what do I tell?
I tell our Plan C.
I’m done means my wife will begin.
This is our Plan C.
After more conversations than anyone should ever have about how to have a family, after countless (millions!) of sad nights and tears, after thinking just one more try, after believing and wanting the outcome to be good and different, I realized that my struggle to get pregnant began to feel like an abusive relationship.
It’s made me feel bad about myself.
It’s made me believe I’m no good.
It’s made me try everything to make it right. To make it work.
At least for now. At least for a while. At least until — if — I’m ever ready again. And that feels like such a relief. To be able to break the cycle.
The idea of my wife getting pregnant originally came after I lost our twins. I was so heartbroken and the thought of facing a loss like that again was unbearable. But I want to be a mother. And as difficult as it is for some people to hear, and as “selfish” as it may sound to them, I want to be pregnant. I enjoyed my 17 weeks of pregnancy. I enjoyed growing life inside of me.
But at the end of the day, I want to be a mother more than I need to be pregnant.
So we will tap into our “spare womb,” as we like to call it. (Hey, you have to have a sense of humor to get through any of this.)
I realize that I’m luckier than a lot of women who experience this same struggle. Because I have a wife, we have another chance, another way. Another woman to birth our baby — and I just happen to love the crap out of her.
This is our Plan C.