from IF to when

Welcome to the July 2010 version of ICLW. If you have no idea what that crazy-looking acronym means, click on the link to your right and join in on the fun.

I'm getting a little depressed repeating our infertility story every single month, so here's the shortened version in mathematical form (funny . . . I hate math):

27 cycles + 4 IUIs + 1 LAP + 2 REs + over $5,000 = no BFPs and 1 future IVF, in early 2011

If you want all of the sordid details, you can click here and here.

This time, instead of rehashing all of my heartache and writing information that I think you'll want to read, I thought I would let all of you tell me what you are interested in learning about me. So, really, what DO you want to know? Ask me anything and my next post will be the answers to any of your burning questions.

Happy ICLW! I look forward to getting to know all of you.

The day my doctor diagnosed me with infertility was the loneliest day of my life.

I went from being the woman who wanted a child to being the woman who couldn't have a child. But even more lonely than the feeling of not being able to have a child was the feeling of no longer belonging. At the time, I was a member of a message board about trying to conceive a first child. No longer did I feel at home posting in the regular cycle threads. Yet I also wasn't moving on to treatment. Joey had just lost his job due to the failing economy and we were at a crossroads financially. My insurance at the time covered both testing and treatment, but we knew that it would be months before we could see an RE--it was simply financially irresponsible for us to try and get pregnant while down one income. Even after our move to Florida, getting settled, and getting new jobs, expensive treatments just weren't an option for us. We are very fortunate to have been able to afford four IUIs and be on the road to saving for IVF. When I get down about waiting this long to have a baby, I count my blessings because I know that some people are less fortunate.

But this post isn't about the value of money. It's about the value of people.

I think, as a whole, we truly value each other in this community. I learned this quickly after my diagnosis. So many women who were going through or had been through the exact same thing reached out to me. We formed a small group on the message board. Eventually, most of us split off from the board, started our own blogs, and became friends on Facebook. I've said it many times, but I don't know what I would do without you women. Particularly those of you who've been there for me since the beginning and who still walk with me every step of the way. Sometimes, though, I think there are a select few out there who place too much value on treatment and not enough on people.

In the last year and a half that I've blogged, I've read countless positive, happy-outcome stories: stories of women who went through multiple rounds of Clomid only to do an IUI and become pregnant, stories of women who got pregnant on their first or second round of Femara, and stories of women who conceived naturally after learning that their last IUI failed. Every single one of these stories is and should be a beacon of hope for all of us. We might feel barren, but we are not. When we least expect it, our bodies can surprise us and miracles CAN happen. And, most of all, every single one of us who has endured this diagnosis deserves that positive pee stick at the end of this tunnel.

Unfortunately, I've also read a lot of apologies from these women. Some of them feel like a fraud. Some of them didn't have to go through “what other women had to go through” to achieve success. Some of them felt guilty when their friends had to move on to bigger and more expensive treatments. Even worse, there are women on the other side of the fence--those who have been through the big treatments--who look down on the women with less experience. As if, somehow, “only” going through a round or two of Clomid and some testing make a woman less important in our community. As if infertiles who go through treatments that are more complex are worthier of motherhood and happiness.

I'm not sure when and how the line became blurred between infertiles and non-infertiles. To me, it's always been simple: if you've sat in an exam room or an office and listen to a doctor tell you that you are infertile, that you may never conceive a child the natural way (or at all), you are infertile. If you have endured a year of trying to have a baby with no luck and you have to step foot into an RE's office, you are infertile. If you experience loss, repeat loss, cancer, endometriosis, PCOS, or have a husband with male factor issues, you are infertile.

It’s bad enough that it’s us against the world; we shouldn’t let it become us against us. Having “only” taken Clomid, or even getting pregnant naturally, doesn’t make someone less qualified to be infertile. It doesn’t make their advice or their friendship less meaningful. It doesn’t make their road any easier, their nights any less sleepless, their pain any less significant. And, in the same sense, having gone through bigger treatments doesn’t make someone any more important or worthy of speaking about/advocating for infertility. It doesn’t make their emotions any more concrete. It doesn’t make their support more valuable.

The reality is that we are all in the same, shitty boat. We all have the same basket of lemons to carry. And our value doesn’t come with how many treatments we’ve had, or how much money or time we’ve invested. Our value comes from how we’ve supported one another, how we’ve offered advice, how we’ve cried tears of sorrow and joy, and how we’ve hugged and held one another from sometimes thousands of miles away. Each of us is equally deserving of the happiness we seek and we need to remember this. Because we are the only ones who understand and can pull each other through this. We are all we have.

Each of us carries a different burden on this journey. We all walk in different shoes. But we need to remember that our shoes are from the same store. Our paths will be different and we will end in different places, but we all began at the same location with the same goal:

We all began with the hope and dream of becoming a mother.

Thank you all for the sweet comments on my last post. I'm feeling a little better, emotionally anyway. Physically I'm still in a lot of pain. Today has been the worst day so far, probably because I tried to go cold turkey on the muscle relaxers last night. I know a lot of you mentioned getting a mouth guard in your comments. I've tried using one in the past, but it just doesn't work for me. Mouth guard = more discomfort, more drooling, and even less sleep. For the time being, I'm afraid that I'm stuck like this. My brain feels like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to burst into a thousand pieces.

The good news is that I won't have to endure my usual two-hour-a-day work commute tomorrow and Friday since I'll be attending a conference in Orlando, not too far from my mom's house. Maybe the two days away from the office combined with less time in the car will make for less stress.

I'm really looking forward to acu on Saturday. Last session, my acupuncturist put some needles in the area of my jaw that really hurts and it helped to take some of the pressure away. She also put needles in my hips, since they were extremely sore when AF was in town, and changed up my herbs to help with the stomach issues I had on cycle days 1 through 3 and to cleanse my uterus (which, apparently, is not yet good soil to grow a garden, according to my acupuncturist). And I just love how positive she is. She seems so confident that she can get my body to work and her confidence rubs off on me. As I walked out the door after my last session she said, "Next month, I get you pregnant. Right now, I cleanse your body, but next month I get you pregnant."

Boy, I sure hope she's right.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a fan of Lebron James, for a number of reasons. I think "King" James is egocentric, as evidenced by his one-hour TV special to announce where he would play this fall. (Really? You need an entire hour to talk about your future in the NBA?) He hasn't won a title, yet is still considered the king. Of what, exactly, I'm not sure. And I'm a Magic fan, so his snub of the Magic players during the 2009 playoffs really got my blood boiling. Not to mention how completely fucked our priorities are as a country: where we'd rather pay a basketball star million of dollars a year, while our teachers, police officers, and firefighters make next to nothing to shape the future of our society and put their lives in danger for others. Or where Lebron's decision is top story on the evening news instead of one of the other ten dozen things in this country that need our attention

I digress.

Despite this, I did end up watching the special last night for the sake of my husband. (The things we do for love.) In a conversation with reporters following the announcement, ESPN showed a brief clip of James's jerseys burning in Cleveland. His response? "I have to do what makes me happy."

At that moment, I empathized with Lebron James.

Yes, he's selfish. Yes, they way he went about announcing his decision was classless. As one reporter here put it, no one goes on national television and breaks up with their wife. He should have done it quietly and privately, out of respect for the Cavs. But, in the same sense, I get it. This was probably not an easy decision for him. As he stated several times in interviews last night, it was never about the money. He could have easily stayed in Cleveland, made more money, and possibly never win a title. Instead, he chose to do what he felt was best for him and what he thought would get him to his ultimate goal: winning a championship.

In many ways, my journey with IF follows a similar path. I've spent so much time trying to have faith that what we were doing would lead us to our ultimate goal (having a baby), only to experience failure after failure. I've had more than one doctor promise that he could get me pregnant. I've been told, "things were perfect" . . . but they were only perfect on paper. And here I am: 27 cycles later and still wondering when it's ever going to be our turn. I've tried to make this work and doctors have tried to make it work for me. The fact is, a drastic changed must be made for us to have a baby. Right now, that drastic change is moving on to IVF. It will leave us with less money. It's a huge gamble. And not everyone is on board with our decision. But we needed to make the best decision for us--regardless of money, loyalty, or emotions.

Lebron tried. He stuck with it and gave it his all, but he alone cannot win a championship. And just like it takes a village to raise a child (or a team to win a trophy), it takes more than one person to make a child. In our case, it takes dozens. So, Lebron may not be the classiest sports star or the most humble, but I get where he's coming from: when you want something so badly and you've waited so long to get it, you'll pull out all of the stops to reach that goal. Because when Lebron is older and out of his prime, he doesn't want to look back and say he's "31 years old with bad knees and no ring."

Just like I don't want to look back and say, "I'm 41 years old with a bad uterus and no baby."