Author: Brittney

Dear Baby,

Social media can be such a cold and unforgiving place.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to stay connected with old friends, and post pictures, and express funny little thoughts that were once confined to your shower. But it’s also a place where people like me have to watch women we’ve known nearly all of our lives start having children of their own, while we sit with our arms empty and our hearts bursting.

An old friend just announced she’s having another baby.

This happens all the time these days.  Women my age are having babies, and I should be used to seeing their happy announcements and updates via social media.  And I am used to it, to an extent.  But every time I see it, it still punches me in the gut.

Anyway. She’s my age, she married her husband exactly one day before your dad and I got married…and she’s having another baby.

That’s right. Another baby. Her second.

I can’t even find you, and she gets a second baby. And every day, I get to go on social media and watch her joy unfold, and see her tummy grow, and I know one day I’ll see her new baby and start watching him grow up…all before I meet you. And I get to see the joy of all the other new moms and soon-to-be dads out there, every day in black and white (and blue..), while I sit and wait for my number to be called.

I won’t lie and say I’m not jealous, because I am. I’m so, so incredibly jealous of them. I want what they have so badly, and it’s completely unfair that you’re so far out of my reach.

And I get that life isn’t fair.  People have crammed that little adage down my throat so many times I’ve choked on it.

Life isn’t fair. Okay. I get it.  But life shouldn’t be this cruel, either.

Seeing their joy reminds me, constantly, of what I’ve lost. Her first little boy is so cute, and he’s this amazing hybrid of her and her husband. I look at him and I see my old friend I’ve known since we were just a few years older than he is now. And my heart HURTS.

But I’m also incredibly, overwhelmingly happy for her.  For her, and for all of the other soon-to-be parents out there. As much as this hurts, I’m so glad that they get their joy – because I know how horrible it is to want a baby so badly and not be able to have one. I wouldn’t wish this situation on anyone. This gut wrenching, joy-stealing, nightmarish hellscape of not being able to get pregnant. It’s awful, and to see others not have to deal with it…as much as it hurts me, I’m so glad they’re not dealing with it.

If I ever do find you, will people look at you and see me? Probably not. You will never come from me. If your dad and I get super lucky, I may grow you inside of me, and we may share blood, but unless something miraculous happens – something that doctors have said is impossible – we will never share DNA.

You won’t have my eyes. You won’t have my smile. You won’t have my one little annoying dimple stuck to your left cheek. And as much as people try and tell me that doesn’t matter…it does. It matters to me.

I’ll still love you more than you can imagine. I’ll still be your mom, and you’ll still be my baby. But I’ll never get to look down at you and see a younger version of myself, and that bothers me. I wish it didn’t. I wish I could say that no matter how you come to me, it’s all the same and appearances and DNA don’t matter. But these things do matter, and anyone who says they don’t have no idea what they’re talking about. They can choose to look down at their children and see themselves. I don’t have that choice.

What’s the first thing that women say when they see a new baby?

“Oh, he looks just like you!”

“Oh, wow, he has his father’s chin!”

“He looks just like his grandfather, how crazy!”

It’s biological. It’s basic human instinct. I have a very dear friend who lost her mother when she was a little girl.  My friend now has a son – who looks like her mother.  Every day she gets to look at her son and remember her mom.  I think that’s incredible.

I read an article once about how newborn children look overwhelmingly like their fathers. Whether they do or don’t I can’t say, but supposedly it’s a trait passed down from our primitive, nomadic ancestors as a way to keep families and tribes together. A mother will always love and stay with her newborn, so when the baby arrives and looks like the daddy, it triggers something in the dad, some primal instinct that instantly bonds him to the child. That may all be BS, but from where I’m sitting, I can’t deny this instinct, because I feel it wondering if you’ll look like me. Will I bond as closely to you as I would if you looked like me? I don’t know.  I’ll never know that kind of mother’s love.

It hurts more when I see mothers and children on social media and they look so alike it’s crazy. It hurts when I see people having their second and third babies, and I know they don’t lie awake at night, pregnant, wondering what their baby will look like. Because it’s a given. The baby will look like its parents.

I don’t have that option. I have no idea what you’ll look like, and while I’d love to say that doesn’t bother me…it does.

If we get really lucky, you’ll look like your daddy. I really hope you do. Your daddy has these amazing Galveston Bay green eyes that just light up my world. I’ve never seen eyes so deeply green. And his smile is so mischievous, just thinking about it makes me happy.

And he’s tall, so there’s that. You won’t be short like me. And I guess you won’t be missing a ligament in your shoulder or a vertebrae in your spine like me. And you won’t have Celiac or any other autoimmune disease like me, either. And those are good things. So maybe when I look at you, I’ll see your dad, and his beautiful eyes, and his perfect nose and his amazing smile, and that’ll be enough to overcome all the negatives.

Still thinking about you. Still missing you, every day.

Love, Mom

 

Dear Baby,

It’s been over a year since I’ve really written anything about you.  It’s not because I haven’t been thinking about you;  it’s exactly the opposite. I think about you every waking hour of my life.  I’ve dreamed about you while I’ve slept.  I’ve had entire conversations with you about everything from God and Jesus to sex and dating… but it’s all been in my head.  But even though I can’t get you off of my mind, even when I try,  sitting down and trying to put all of this into words has been just too difficult. It’s like writing it all down makes this nightmare real.

I mean, it is real.  You’re still lost.  Every time I tried to update this site, I put it off, thinking the nightmare was just about to end and we’d find you.  But that hasn’t happened yet.  It’s been over a year since I’ve written anything down, and if anything, we’re worse off than we were before.

A lot has happened in a year.  We tried to find you with an IVF procedure.  In fact, the last time I really talked about you here was on day 5 of that journey, which ultimately ended in disaster.  We did retrieve 12 eggs, but only 6 were mature.  All arrested before day five.  We tried so hard to find you via science and medicine, but my body failed me.

We tried again this past August.  Another round of hormones, steriods, and pills.  Another egg retrieval that ended in failure.  We retrieved 17 eggs.  5 were mature.  All arrested.  Our doctor told us we shouldn’t try again; there’s something wrong with me on a cellular level and I’ll never get pregnant like this. We’ll never find you like this.

So, yeah.  A lot of doors have closed for us, without too many more opening.  So it’s been too hard to put into words exactly how I feel. I’ve been in a kind of fugue for these past several months.  I go to work, I come home, and I cry.  Knowing you’re out there but seemingly forever beyond my reach is eating at me.

What do I feel when I think about you? Is it love for something I can see and feel and nurture, but only when I close my eyes? That’s a part of it.

Is it longing for a chance to carry you in my body,  to feed you from my breast and watch you grow and play and develop your own personality?  Is it jealously at all the other moms out there who have found their baby, once, twice, sometimes three or more times over? Is it anger at a situation that’s completely out of my control?

It’s all of that and more.  It varies greatly,  depending on where I am and what’s going on around me. Right now,  as I’m forcing myself to write this,  I’m angry and I’m sad. I’m angry that we’re living in an age where women are celebrating the control they have over their bodies, now more than ever – there’s a movement going on, where women are finally standing up for themselves and taking control of their lives and their bodies; but here I am, sitting on the sidelines, because MY body is completely out of my control. And this lack of control – something that most women take for granted – is what keeps me and your dad so far away from you.  And that makes me angry.

And sad. But mostly angry.

I think about you and I know that I have to find you. I won’t say that I can’t imagine life without you,  because I’ve been living a pretty amazing life, even though we’ve been searching for you for more than ten years.

Your dad is wonderful. We could talk for hours about the man I get to call my husband, and the man you’ll get to call Daddy. You and I got so lucky, and I can’t wait to share him with you. But that’s for another time.  I have a great career and a lot of truly amazing friends. You’ll have an entire network of aunts and uncles and cousins when you find your way to us, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that family means more than flesh and blood. I have sisters without a drop of my dna. I have fathers I didn’t meet until I was an adult. I have a brother who married your aunt. We’re all family, and I cant wait for you to meet everyone.

But we’re missing something. We’re missing you. As great as things are for your dad and me, there’s a gaping hole in our lives, and I feel it every day. I carry it with me every day.

I found someone to talk to about you. Just you. And I don’t have to censor myself or stick to social norms and ask how she’s doing as well. She’s there for me in a way that no one else can be, because she’s been there. It took her a very long time to find her baby, and so she knows how long and hard the road is. But she reached the end. She found her baby. And so I have to believe that if she can find hers, there’s hope for me and your dad, too.

She’s the one who encouraged me to continue writing this down, but to change the format a bit.  See, it’s not about the past anymore.  It’s not about what worked, and what didn’t, or what medicine I’m taking or how many follicles I have.  None of that matters. What matters is you. So, from now on, this blog is for you. My baby.

Love,

Mom

 

2016.

Let’s see… I lost my grandfather, lost a friend, lost 6 embryos, lost my appendix and almost lost my brother. I twisted an ovary, miscarried 3 times, developed an abscess in my abdominal wall, and watched Trump get elected president. I had my identity partially stolen, spent $7K on emergency vet bills, went without a fridge for two months, and was nearly evacuated in a wild fire. I went to the ER four times because of a stupid surgeon botching my appendectomy, then missed Christmas and a month of work.

Goodbye, 2016. F**k you very much.

Well, I just had an emergency appendectomy.  No, I’m not joking.

I’m between pain pills at the moment and people have asked what exactly happened, so here goes:

I think it all started Wednesday night or Thursday morning. My lower back was sore and I was cramping a bit in my tummy, but with so many changes in how/when PMS affects me over the past year of fertility treatment, I assumed that had to be it. Just PMS.

I took Advil all day Thursday, and when I got home from work, I took more Advil, laid down with my heating pad, and tried to sleep.

I woke up around 1230 Friday morning. Quincy was still awake and reading in bed, but I was hurting a lot more than when I laid down. I figured the heating pad got me too hot and gave me a tummy ache (really naive, I guess) so I got rid of it and just laid there.

I was still wide awake and hurting at 2am.  By that time, Quincy had turned off the lamp and had gone to sleep. Alone in the dark, I realized something must really be wrong with me… the pain wasn’t general, all-over tummy and back pain any longer – I felt like someone had jabbed a hot poker in my sternum and dragged it down to my lower right side.

At 3am, I got up and took Pepto, thinking there must have been something wrong with the salad I had for dinner. I’ve never had food poisoning that I can recall, so I figured I’d start spewing out of both ends soon, and the pain would lessen. I told myself if I wasn’t better by 4am, I would wake Quincy and go to the ER.

I couldn’t stand it any more by 330. Without exaggeration, every time I breathed out, the pain intensified. I was shaking all over. I had tried to throw up but it hurt too much to try and gag.  I tried to go to the bathroom, but even that hurt too much. There was no way this was food poisoning if by body was flat-out refusing to expel anything from either end.

We got to the ER by 350am. Luckily (?), I must have looked as bad as I felt because I hadn’t even finished signing in and they were starting to draw my blood and giving me a cup to go pee in.

I started throwing up then, too. Well, dry-heaving, which was even worse.  Nothing would come out to rid myself of this pain. They got me a wheelchair to sit in and wait for my name to be called, but it hurt to sit, so I laid in a crumbled heap on the floor of the ER for about 45 minutes, clutching a barf bag and dry heaving. Finally, they wheeled me back for a CT scan around 5am, which is where things really took a nose dive.

You’re supposed to be still during the scan, but I was shaking uncontrollably. You’re supposed to breathe in and hold it…but I couldn’t. Then I started actually vomiting, not just dry heaving any longer.  We had to wait until I finished throwing up before we could go back to the waiting room. I have never in my life been in that much pain.  I thought the HSG was bad.  This was worse.

Once back on the floor of the ER, I asked Quincy how long until I got a room (and pain meds). He checked… there were 4 people in front of me.

Apparently not. No sooner had he asked, a nurse came out and got me. After I had changed into the gown, my main nurse came in and told us it was my appendix and they’d called the surgeon. Two other nurses took a chest x-ray and EKG to prep for surgery, and finally around 6…I got morphine. Sweet Jesus, it was amazing – even though it only lasted about 15 minutes.

In that time, my nurse said the surgeon was coming, and I would have the appendectomy by noon. She gave me more drugs (Dilaudid? I dunno) and we started playing the waiting game.

However, the surgeon arrived around 730 and must have seen something that sped things along…because a whole bunch of nurses came in and told me the surgeon wanted it out NOW. So I signed some papers and was whisked away to the OR.

I asked the OR nurse when everything was over and I was getting ready to leave how bad it was. She told me a healthy appendix is about half the size of the tip of your pinky (from that first joint to the tip). Mine was the size of a golf ball.

So, that’s my OMFG ER story of hopefully my lifetime. I guess you can never plan for emergency surgery, but in any case, this one really surprised me. My advice is… if something doesn’t feel right, don’t wait nearly 4 hours to go to the hospital.

Yesterday, my heart was broken not because of the election, but because of the 6 eggs retrieved… all are gone. Not a single embryo made it past 10 cells. Two arrested at 4 cells, two at 6 cells. Two were hanging on yesterday as 10cells… But they should have been over 100-celled blastocysts.
They’ll still monitor these two 10-cells for another day, but their chances are bleak. We were told to fear the worst. We’ll get a final word later today or tomorrow.

Our journey isn’t over… but we’ve reached a dead end. Time to go back the way we came, look at the map, and figure out a new direction. There’s a larger problem here that we need to address before trying again.

Quincy and I got our Day 3 report card back yesterday from the lab.  Before I go into that, I want to explain a few things the best way I can:

After the retrieval, the eggs are put in an incubator for a few hours before they are checked for maturation. This is where they discovered that out of the 12 retrieved, only 6 of mine were mature…which was kind of a letdown. Immature cells are basically worthless.  If they aren’t mature, there is no way they can fertilize.

Once they identify mature eggs, they try to fertilize them by either putting them in a dish with sperm (to allow it to happen “naturally”) or with ICSI, where they literally inject one sperm directly into an egg using a tiny needle.  Because of how long we’ve been unable to conceive, and not really knowing the reason why, Quincy and I had all of our eggs undergo ICSI, and it went as well as could be expected – all six eggs fertilized.

Once they are fertilized, these newly-created embryos are placed back in the incubator to, well, incubate.  To start growing, multiplying, and developing into a blastocyst; which is a clump of 100+ cells, then eventually a fetus, and finally, a baby. They are left alone to do their thing and are checked again on Day 3.

Here’s where stuff really starts happening.

Embryoss are graded during their first several days incubating. The grading is based on the number of cells that make up the embryo, the amount of fragmentation seen, and the symmetry of each cell.  They are each assigned a number and a letter grade.

The number grade is easy – it represents the exact number of cells that make up the embryo.  On Day 3, an embryo should consist of between six and ten cells.  The “ideal” embryo is an eight-cell, whereas any embryos with six cells are fewer are far less likely to continue to develop.  Exactly six-celled embryos are borderline – they may or may not continue to develop, but an embryo with fewer than six cells usually start deteriorating as the other ones thrive.

So, on to the letter grade.  Embryos are given a letter grade just like in school – A, B, C, etc. As are the best, Bs are okay, and Cs are mediocre. No one wants a C or lower.

Grades are based on fragmentation and symmetry.  Symmetry is easy – it’s how close the cells are in size.  The closer they are – the more symmetrical – the better.  Cells that vary greatly in size are a bad thing and are rated lower; it implies defects.

Fragmentation is a little tricky and super scientific. From what I understand, when the cells are dividing, sometimes little chunks of cytoplasm break off and create little globs that aren’t cells – they contain no nuclei – but they are floating around in there.  Also, any fragmentation takes cytoplasm away from the actual cells, which isn’t good.  That genetic material has been taken away from the actual cells – they are now missing that information.  Embryos with high rates of fragmentation rarely develop into blastocysts.

So.  That’s the long and short of it.  Now we understand what the following numbers mean.

We had six eggs fertilize.  On Day 3, they were graded as follows:

8-cell, grade B

6-cell, grade B

6-cell, grade C

6-cell, grade C

4-cell, grade C

4-cell, grade C

So, yeah.  Obviously not ideal.  Dr. Landay says that the four-cell, grade C embryos are done. They will never survive.  That leaves four.  The six-cell, grade C embryos are iffy. They could improve…or not.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

We won’t know for a couple of days. The six-cell and eight-cell grade Bs…those are promising.  The eight-cell one is ideal, the six-cell is more of a “looks good, but we’ll have to see” scenario than anything else.

I think this is actually worse than your average two week wait.  They’re right there. They’ve been fertilized.  If they were inside my body right now, they’d be preparing for implantation.  I’d technically be pregnant.

But they’re not.  And if this had occurred inside my body and not in a lab…two would have already died, even before trying to implant. Now I have to wait until tomorrow for our Day 5 report, just to see if any have survived to be biopsied for defects/chromosomal abnormalities. Then, after that, the REAL two-week-wait begins.  We won’t know the status of any biopsied, frozen embryos for another two weeks.

So, we’ll have a good Thanksgiving…or we won’t.

Quincy and I got our day 3 report card back yesterday from the lab.  Before I go into that, I want to explain a few things the best way I can:

After the retrieval, the eggs are put in an incubator for a few hours before they are checked for maturation. This is where they discovered that out of the 12 retrieved, only 6 of mine were mature…which was kind of a letdown.

Once they identify the mature eggs, they try to fertilize them by either putting them in a dish with sperm (to allow it to happen “naturally”) or with ICSI, where they literally inject one sperm directly into the egg using a tiny needle.  Quincy and I had our eggs undergo ICSI, and it went as well as could be expected – all six eggs fertilized.  Woohoo!

Once they are fertilized, the newly-created embryos are placed back in the incubator to, well, incubate.  They are left alone to do their thing and are checked again on day 3.  Here’s where the fun begins.

The grading is based on the number of cells that make up the embryo, the amount of fragmentation seen, and the symmetry of each cell.  They are assigned a number and a letter grade.

The number is easy – it represents the number of cells that make up the embryo.  On day 3, an embryo should be between 6-10 cells.  The “ideal” embryo is an 8-cell, whereas any embryos with six cells are fewer are far less likely to continue to develop.  6-cells are borderline – they may or may not continue to develop, but an embryo with fewer with six cells usually start deteriorating as the other ones thrive.

So, on to the letter grade.  Embryos are giving a letter grade just like in school – A, B, or C. That’s based on fragmentation and symmetry.  Symmetry is easy – it’s how closely the cells are in size.  The closer they are – the more symmetrical – the better.  Cells that vary greatly in size are a bad thing and are rated lower.  Fragmentation is a little tricky but from what I understand, when the cells are dividing sometimes little chunks of cytoplasm break off and create little globs that aren’t cells – they contain no nuclei – but they are floating around in there.  Also, any fragmentation takes cytoplasm away from the actual cells, which isn’t good.  The actual cells are missing that information.  Embryos with high rates of fragmentation rarely develop into blastocysts.

So.  That’s the long and short of it.  Now we understand what the following numbers mean.

I had six eggs fertilize.  On day 3, they were graded as follows:

8-cell, grade B

6-cell, grade B

6-cell, grade C

6-cell, grade C

4-cell, grade C

4-cell, grade C

So, yeah.  Obviously not ideal.  Dr Landay says the 4-cell, grade C embryos are done.  That leaves four.  The 6-cell, grade C guys are iffy – we have to wait and see.  They could improve…or not.  We won’t know for a couple of days. The 6-cell and 8-cell grade Bs…those are promising.  The 8-cell one is ideal, the 6-cell is more of a “looks good, but we’ll have to see” scenario than anything else.

I think this is actually worse than your average two week wait.  They’re right there. They’ve been fertilized.  They were inside my body right now, they’d be preparing for implantation.  I’d technically be pregnant.  But they’re not.  And if I were pregnant…two would have already died, even before trying to implant. Now I have to wait until tomorrow for our day 5 report, just to see if any have even survived to biopsied for defects. Then, after that, the REAL two-week-wait begins.  We won’t know how the biopsied, frozen embryos are for another two weeks.  So, we’ll have a good Thanksgiving…or we won’t. 

God is so, so good. 12 eggs. I’m woozy and on pain killers but overall it went really well. We’ll know later today how many fertilized and in about 5 days, how many made it to blastocysts.

My age, at least 6 should fertilize.

There are so many things going on in my head right now it’s hard to focus.
First of all, I spoke to Dr Landay about what Quincy’s  Chromosome 9 Inversion means for us.  She said that yes, it could explain our infertility and RPL, but to not focus on it.  She says it’s clinically insignificant, meaning there’s nothing additional we can add to our plan that would alter our ER or FET.

The only other thing she would suggest is PGD – Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis – which is the genetic testing we’ve already decided on.  The genetic testing will take all the successfully fertilized, 5-day blastocysts and test them for chromosomal disorders (like, um…an inverted one, perhaps..).  They can weed out all the little blasts that aren’t viable and only freeze/implant the ones they know will thrive.  Since we’re already planning on doing this, our plan doesn’t change.

Which I guess is good and bad.  We went into this thinking we had a 78% success rate, but that was before we knew that a lot of our blasts won’t be viable.  So our success rate has dropped significantly. However, there’s still a chance that it won’t affect anything.

Now, moving on to the Day 5 Follicle Count.  I’ve been on 225 IU Gonal-F and 75cc Menopur for 5 days. I had a blood test Monday and my estrogen level was 231, which is pretty much ideal.  She wanted it between 100-300, and so I’m right where I need to be, hormone-level wise.

During the ultrasound, we saw 11 follies, total – only three of which were on my crappy right ovary.  Right now, of those eleven, four of them are over 9mm – two on the right and two on the left.  Those four, at least, should definitely hit the crucial 14mm mark.

The remaining follies are tiny, ranging between 3-7mm.  A few of those *may* mature, but the smallest ones definitely won’t.

I’ll most likely end up between 5-7 mature follies to retrieve, unless some major changes happen over the next few days.

This isn’t ideal.  It’s got me terrified.  I’m no math major, but I do know that at 34 years old, only about half of my follicles will be viable.  So, that’s 3.5.  Let’s say 3.

Added to that, we now have the additional chromosome abnormalities to contend with.  So, a third of those successfully fertilized eggs may actually thrive.

A third of three is…one. One embryo.

I told Quincy last night I was in a good place, that if this IVF didn’t work, at least we would have tried.  But today, I’m looking at my Pinterest boards of gender-reveal party ideas and baby shower themes and baby name suggestions, and the realization that this may never happen is really sinking in.  I may never get to be pregnant, and feel a baby kick and breastfeed.

It’s a lot to take in.

 

 

I’m still reeling over the insensitive comment about adoption the other evening, and it’s got me thinking.  The thing is – I know people don’t intentionally say hurtful things.  People aren’t usually wired that way.  I understand that this subject is by and large faux pas to begin with. People aren’t given too many opportunities to say anything at all, so when the time comes…they don’t really know what to say.  Infertility is a very private matter, and it’s understandable that most people won’t know how to respond.
So, here’s a list.  It contains things you should never, ever do or say to an infertile couple (most of which, sadly, have been said/done to me at one point).

DON’T tell us to “relax” or “try not to stress.” 

Unfortunately, this is the one I’ve gotten the most often.

First of all, infertility is stressful.  Period.  Infertility is a medical condition diagnosed once the couple has tried and failed to conceive for over a year.  There are countless blood tests, sperm tests, genetic tests and medical procedures that are run before the couple is officially diagnosed as infertile.

This isn’t something that’s fixable with a glass of wine and a massage.  Relaxing won’t grow follicles.  Relaxing won’t create higher sperm counts.  Relaxing won’t fix chromosomal disorders.

Hearing someone tell us to relax is like nails on a chalkboard. That’s like telling someone with lupus or a hernia to just to calm down and it’ll go away on its own.

Please stop blaming us for our own infertility.

DON’T tell us we don’t need children. Who really needs kids, anyway?  Are you implying that we’d make shitty parents?  Or, worse, that our life is so great that having children would take something away from us?  Or – much, much worse – saying that only people with shitty lives need children?

Isn’t that counter intuitive?  Wouldn’t people with great families, good jobs, and a network of close friends make exceptional parents? Why, exactly, would you suggest this?

Also, DON’T tell us we aren’t meant to have children. Or, conversely, that it’ll happen “if it’s meant to be.” So…drug addicts and child abusers and alcoholics and pedophiles were meant to have kids, but I wasn’t? This makes no sense.

I get it.  Some people don’t want kids, and that’s super fantastically okay.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  But some people do. Please don’t minimize this.

Speaking of minimizing…DON’T minimize our pain: Making jokes can easily diffuse a stressful situation, but often times, saying the wrong thing can exacerbate the problem. Don’t joke about the male partner “shooting blanks,” or offering to be a sperm donor with a wink and a smile, and please, please don’t say any of the following: 

• “Well, time to try harder!” – great job implying we’re doing something wrong while bringing our sex life into it. See also: my rant on “the fun is in the trying!!”
• “Be lucky you don’t have to…” – Insert any number of crazy parenting scenarios here. Diaper blowouts.  College tuition. Temper tantrums. Cleaning Sharpie off the walls.  Breaking up sibling fights. We know what is involved in being a parent.  Someone spending so much time and effort trying to become one clearly has some idea about what they’re getting into and don’t consider themselves “lucky” that they’re missing the opportunity.
• “Well, you can still…” sleep late/travel/go out with friends/blah blah blah.  See above. None of these are helpful, and it really just conveys that you don’t understand or empathize with us.

DON’T offer unsolicited advice.  People have told me to try acupuncture, holistic specialists, gluten free\sugar free\meat free\paleo\vegan\organic\low salt\no salt\keto diets.  Any number of things.  My favorite was when someone told me I needed to keep track of my ovulation.  Yeah.  Because THAT never occurred to me.  Thanks.

Here’s the thing.  We’ve been in this position a long, long time.  Over a year of trying, minimum.  We’ve read books, trolled blogging websites.  We’ve done our homework. Don’t assume that because don’t talk openly about everything that we are ignorant or uninformed.  Don’t talk down to us. Chances are, we will have either already tried whatever you plan on suggesting, or we will have dismissed it as crackpot, like “relaxing” and “going on a vacation.”

Now, a caveat to this is – if you had struggles with infertility yourself, maybe you want to tell us what worked for you.  This is totally fine, in my book. But remember, just like every pregnancy is different, everyone’s infertility is different.  There is no cure-all that works for everyone.

DON’T keep your pregnancy a secret. This is especially important. Yes, I feel a little twinge of sadness and jealousy over my situation every time a friend shares their happy news, but that pales in comparison to the happiness I feel for them.  Being able to share in good news with a dear friend is wonderful and we don’t want to miss out.

Please don’t shy away from us.  We’re your friends.  We love you. We want to laugh with you, and cry with you, and be happy for you no matter what’s going on in our lives.  And you have to trust us on this.  If you don’t think we’d be happy for you and your baby news…why are we friends?  Please don’t try to shield us.  We’re adults.  We can handle it, and would be thrilled you weren’t dealing with infertility as well.

DON’T push adoption.  We’ve covered this, but I want to add to it.  DON’T push IVF.  DON’T push for us to stop treatment, or to continue treatment once we’ve decided on our own to end them.  Whatever we do with our lives, our families, and our bodies is 100% our business.  We have our own reasons for why we’re doing what we do.

Seriously, sometimes all we need is someone to listen.  We don’t really need you to say anything. Or, if you like, try, “I know this very difficult for you.  I’m here if you need me.”

People have said this to me, and believe me, it is always welcome and appreciated.