2/20/2017 6 Comments The Little Embryo that Couldn'tOn Saturday afternoon we got the call that our lonely little embryo did not make it to freeze. I was gutted. I really felt like it had overcome so many obstacles already and it was a little fighter. I really felt like that would’ve become our baby. When I hung up the phone I was crying. I was filled with so many emotions. Sadness, anger, jealousy, resentment. I was screaming. I was screaming at a pitch I didn’t know my voice was capable of. I didn’t even recognize my own voice. I screamed so high and so loud it hurt my throat. I wanted to throw everything. Matt grabbed me and my intended projectile and told me to hit him. I couldn’t hit him. I just cried and screamed until I felt numb. I just laid on the couch staring at the walls for hours. Occasionally I would sob a guttural cry. I cried until there were no tears – only noises. I wondered how long I could go without eating or drinking until my body gave out. I prayed to all of the gods –any god—that would listen. I wanted my body to just stop working. If only my mother would’ve been serious just one of those times she said, “I brought you into this world and I can take you out.”
After several hours, I crawled off the couch and took all of my empty medicine bottles and syringes and made a broken heart out of them. I always imagined I’d be making them into a heart with a picture of our embryo and hopefully a sonogram instead. Matt saw it and we both cried again. This is all that we have of our baby. We’ve lost two babies this year and that’s all we had to show. I’ll never know if my babies would’ve had green eyes and brown hair like me. Or if I would’ve spent a lifetime apologizing that he or she got my nose or my sense of direction. I’ll never know what it’s like to see myself in someone else. There are so many things that I’ll never know. I’ll always wonder who my babies could have been. I haven’t written a blog post in so many days because I don’t know what to say. What do you say when you get to the end of the tunnel, but there is no light? I always assumed I’d be a mother. When I found out it was going to be difficult for us to have a baby, I thought it would be that—difficult. Not impossible. I really hate it when people say, “You never know. Miracles happen.” No they don’t. Not to me anyway. I paid thousands and thousands of dollars for my miracle and I still didn’t get it. I suffered through dozens of acupuncture sessions, vaginal probing, blood draws. My hair has fallen out. I’ve experienced the worst hot flashes and headaches and memory loss. I’ve gained 25 pounds and lost 15. I’ve gone months without a period. I’ve had surgery and been left with permanent scarring. I lost a fallopian tube and several friends. I’ve given up caffeine, sugar, and carbohydrates. My emotions have been stretched to the lowest lows I could have ever imagined. This experience is something words cannot capture. And for it to have all been very much not worth it, is truly unimaginable. When people’s hearts stop working and they die to people say, “You never know, their heart might start working again and they’ll come alive.” No. They don’t. At least I hope not. My ovaries do not work. There is no miracle for me. There is no treatment that will fix my ovaries. I will never have my own biological child. I’m so grateful for all those that reached out through Facebook or who sent texts or called. Having such a phenomenal support system has been my only saving grace. Everyone always says how strong I am, but really the strong ones are the ones that carry this burden alone. I could never do that. I don’t know how they manage. I could never have done this alone. Even when people say things that aren’t quite helpful at least I did know they were trying and thinking about us. On Sunday, I decided to get two tattoos (and perhaps very intoxicated—the tattoos came first.) I’ve been tossing the idea around for several months now. I decided to get a lyric from a song that means a lot to me. I love the song The Middle by Jimmy Eat World. I woke up with Bell’s palsy on my 15th birthday. After I got out of the neurologist’s office, my parents took me to get a birthday present and I picked out the Bleed American album. I love every single song on that album and wore that CD out. I always listened to The Middle whenever I felt bad, but wanted a happy, upbeat song. It always put me in a better mood and no matter how many times I listen to it, I will always play it at least twice in a row when it pops up on my playlist. When I first found out I was infertile a friend said to me, “This isn’t the first time something bad has happened in your life. Think about what got you through the hard events in your life and use that to get you through this.” Listening to music and writing are how I’ve always gotten through hard things. I immediately put together a playlist of familiar songs and of course The Middle was right there. So, I got “Everything, everything will be all right” tattooed on the top of my left foot. I recently saw a quote that said, “Everything will be all right does not mean that everything will remain the same.” How profound. Once I saw that quote I knew that song lyric was the right choice for me. My other tattoo is a semi-colon cat. Because I love cats and I love project semicolon. Project semicolon is a movement to present hope to those struggling with depression, suicide, addiction, and self-injury. The semicolon was selected because when used in a sentence the semicolon represents when an author chose not to end a sentence, but to continue. I chose the semicolon tattoo because my journey is not over. I could choose to end my journey here (interpret this how you may), but I am not. I have a very different definition of “okay” these days, but I really think I’m doing okay. It was actually really nice to hang out with friends yesterday while getting tatted and have some drinks. Life felt normal again. We’ve given up so much through this process that I forgot what it was like to have a little self-indulgence. It felt familiar and fun. It felt like things were going to be all right no matter how things end up. I almost feel a little relieved that it’s over for now. We have a phone consultation with CNY fertility in Syracuse New York on March 8th. We will be looking into donor eggs. It’s going to be crazy expensive. But what is a family worth? I hear it’s priceless. I’m so lucky to have four people genuinely offer to be my egg donor and for that I am grateful. But we do prefer to have an anonymous donor. I’ve had people ask questions or say things like, “But you don’t know what you’re getting” or “Won’t it be a little weird having someone else’s baby?” To the first statement I can attest that no one knows what they are getting when they have kids. As a school psychologist, I have seen it all. There is no way of knowing how your genes will match up with your partner’s genes. I’ve heard parents time and time again say things like, “I have no idea where they get this from.” To the second question, my answer is, “No. It will not be weird having someone else’s baby because it will be my baby.” Ironically enough, these are the people suggesting adoption. Why would it be any weirder to have a donor egg than to adopt a baby? There’s actual evidence in research to suggest that donor egg babies might actually acquire DNA from all three parents. How cool and special is that? Someone shared an analogy with me that described an egg donor as an architect drawing up the plans for the house and the mother as the one actually creating the walls and building the house. I like that idea. Plus, whenever my child complains about something inherent I will know for sure that is not my fault and I can blame someone else. It sounds like a win-win situation. And to quote my favorite song, “Just live right now. Just be yourself. It doesn’t matter if that’s good enough for someone else” – The Middle
6 Comments
Katie holland
2/20/2017 08:48:56 pm
Very touching and moving what you wrote. I am a play therapist, I have to keep this part of me hidden from families and clients. It 's so hard because I envy them at times. So sorry for your loss.
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Heather Joyce
2/21/2017 04:10:51 am
I feel your pain. being a school psychologist has gotten much harder over the last few years. thank you for your comment❤
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Nataly
2/20/2017 10:22:50 pm
There is not words that can provide you comfort in this moment I know because I'm living the same hell, and I'm so relate to your pain that I can feel it. I don't pray anymore and I don't believe anymore and as you said miracles happen but not for people like us, still we need to be strong and move forward because we have amazing human being as our husbands and we can still reach some happiness in this life. Be brave!
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Heather Joyce
2/21/2017 04:09:47 am
thank you so much. it is a terrible hell.
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Aaron
2/21/2017 11:49:50 am
I have kept up with your journey to concive. I can relate to an extent, I have lost 2 babies myself and often wonder how would they turn out. I for whatever reason had a child. I know that when you have a child through donor eggs or however it occurs, you will be a great mother. I will continue to send positive thoughts and prayers your way.
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Heather Joyce
2/21/2017 04:09:07 pm
thank you so much for your kind words❤
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