Eleven Things I Wish I Could Say to My Fertility Doctor

This is a face of infertility.

Dear Infertility Doctor,

I get so flustered and forgetful once I'm in the office where I meet you monthly. These are some things I don't feel comfortable enough to say but feel like they need to be said.

1. Making an appointment to see you has been years in the making, so please take my concerns seriously. It's immensely difficult to admit that I can't do this. It's really hard for me to have come to the understanding that there's something wrong with me. Please remember that just calling you to make an appointment took a whole lot of humility. So please be gentle with my ego.

2. I know that I'm only 25 years old, and I'm completely aware that many of your patients are so much older. I know that I'm technically considered "young." But I also know that my three years of unsuccessful trying have been some of the hardest of my life. Your "older" patients are encouraged to come in after six months, so, unfortunately, I've got a monopoly on the emotional hardship that comes with years of this. Please don't invalidate me because I'm not almost 40. Please don't tell me I've got lots of time because I'm so young. All that does is make me think that you don't value my time and won't work as hard as I need you to.

3. When I ask for more testing, it's because I am not satisfied with your diagnosis. Because, honestly, how the heck is "unexplained" a diagnosis anyway? It's not. It's a cop-out because you don't know what the answer is. You know this. I know this. Let's not pretend that it's anything it's not. You know just as well as I do that next month when I'm not on treatment I could end up pregnant spontaneously, and you wouldn't have any better of an explanation for that either, because neither you nor I understand what's working and not working in my body.

4. There's still about 30% of me that is in complete denial. I still hope that I'm just not timing things right or something. I know that doesn't make sense because we've had like 36 tries to get it right, but that's just part of my denial. Part of me doesn't think I actually have infertility.

5. Another 20% of me really wants to find a natural way to resolve my infertility. I wish that I knew how to get into acupuncture or could enroll in a nightly meditation class or get friendly with a dietician who could help me know exactly what I need. This part of me really hates that I'm going to a fertility specialist and wasting so much money and time on medications that clearly aren't working anyway.

6. About 40% of me is convinced nothing is going to work and I'm barren. (Never say that word. It is the worst!) This part of me is pretty positive I'll either adopt or remain childless. This part of me never expects anything to work anyway and is the "cautious" in my "cautiously optimistic" I feel each month.

7. The last 10% of me is unrealistically hopeful that every single procedure will work and that I'll have the results I want every single month. This part of me starts stressing about the idea of twins or triplets when I haven't even had a positive pregnancy test. This number fluctuates, but it's just shrinking smaller with time.

8. You may have gone through years of school, but I still know my body best. I was ovulating before I met you, and I'll continue ovulating once we part ways. I'm aware that sometime between ovulation and menstruation, something is going wrong. That's really all I know, but I know that there are a million different things that can be going wrong. Not only have I lived in this body my whole life, but I've also done a ton of research in the last three years about my specific symptoms and issues. Don't dismiss my ideas just because I didn't go to medical school.

9. Every month that I get my period, I feel like it's a miscarriage. It is the epitome of utter devastation. Every. Single. Month.

10. IUI's and IVF's may be commonplace for you, but they're really scary and painful for me. If you're in the room performing my procedure, don't talk and laugh with my husband until you're done. Tell me what you're doing. I'm scared and it is physically painful that you're shoving foreign objects into my body. At least talk me through it.

11. All of this having been said, thank you, just the way I say thank you every month. I know that you're trying. I know that you want us to be successful too. I know that you're doing what you can. I'm much more frustrated with our lack of answers and the fact that I don't have a cut and dry case than I am with you. Please don't hold it against me that I'm angry about my situation. I promise I'm not angry with you. Thank you for helping us in our quest.

So Grateful

A wordy thank you from me and a big thumbs up from this hunk!

Holy cow.

I am so humbled.

I feel so blessed.

I am so grateful.

In the two days since we've started our fundraising efforts on gofundme.com, we have raised over $600 and have had almost 40 shares of our page. We've had friends and family from across the country reach out to us and offer to help. We have received so much more support than we could have hoped for. True story, my friends--my heart is full.

This morning, my good friend Anzana reached out to me and offered to set up a fundraising auction where the proceeds will be donated to our IVF fund. Anzana is amazing! She has already raised hundreds of dollars in products and gift cards to a variety of shops and websites through her efforts! Anzana herself is even donating $50 towards the auction--and her shop is awesome! If you're interested in checking out the auction Anzana is setting up, she's going through Instagram and she's periodically putting up pictures of the items and companies going up for auction. If you have anything you'd like to donate, contact Anzana at anzana5@gmail.com and let her know. This is a really exciting time for us, and we'd love to have you all involved in any way you'd like.

Thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart for all of the love, support, donations, and contact. Thank you for helping us get our story out there. Thank you for the encouragement. And most of all, thank you for being here for us when we need you guys the most. You are all amazing.

Love, love, love,
Bryn

How to Be There for Your Infertile Friends

Recently, I've been told that there are too many articles out there telling people what not to say to their infertile friends. My friends have confided in me that they get too worried about saying the wrong things and wind up not saying anything at all. Being forgotten is a scary reality in the infertile's world, as we so often already feel so forgotten by friends, family, society, and even (at times) God himself. So this post is being written to give you all the confidence you need to speak with your infertile friends without being offensive.

1. Just ask about treatment. This might seem weird, but sometimes infertile couples want you to bring up treatment and ask how things are going. They don't want to bring it up themselves, as it can be kind of an awkward bit of conversation to offer up ("Oh, by the way, I got my period again," etc. can be super depressing when initiated by the infertile friend). To bring this up, casually ask about how things are going or ask about future plans. Depending on the day of the cycle, your friend may give you a vague answer. Sometimes this is because she doesn't want to talk about it or doesn't feel comfortable going into details around the company she's with. You can always clarify. And if she gets emotional? (And she probably will.) Be there. It's hard to feel like there's a safe place to just cry and grieve sometimes.

2. Open up the conversation. There are few things more awkward than sitting in a room full of your friends and their families and being completely excluded from the conversation because it's all turned to child-rearing. And even though I've worked with kids of all ages for the past seven years, I'm still not a parent, plain and simple. If you don't want your friends to feel left out, bring up a mutual interest or ask them about something they've been doing in their lives. And if you want to talk about your kids? Do it. Your friends are hanging out with you because they love you. Just don't go crazy and talk about nothing else for hours. That gets super awkward for the childless couple sitting on your couch. I promise.

3. Plan child-free activities sometimes. Your friends love you, and they love your little darlings too, but sometimes infertile couples need a break from all the kid stuff. It already completely consumes their lives, I promise. Invite them out for a double date to the movies or out to dinner or just schedule a sitter and go somewhere to play games or talk. Your friends will appreciate actually getting to visit with you without you sounding like you have Tourette's from how often you interrupt your own conversations to say things to your children. Bonus: surprisingly, parents actually enjoy having conversations with adults too, so it's a win-win!

4. Remember us on the holidays. We are struggling on the holidays, I promise. What's the best time of your life to enjoy a holiday? When you're a child. We are painfully aware that we neither have children nor are children, resulting in some boring holiday traditions alone. Even if you just send a text saying "thinking of you today" or give them a call, your friends will feel better knowing that they haven't been forgotten.

Honestly, the biggest and best thing you can do for your infertile friends is to be there. Your friends are going to either become pregnant or not. If they become pregnant, it can happen through a variety of ways these days, with all the fancy technology and whatnot. Love them no matter what. Support them even if you don't think you'd do the same if you were in their shoes. You never know what you'll do until you're faced with the same situation. If your friends don't become pregnant, they will either adopt, foster, use a surrogate, or choose to live child-free. No matter what, be there. Love them no matter what they choose. Support them no matter how much you think you'd do things differently. That's all we really want. We just want to know that we have the love and support from the people who we also love and support. That's the secret. That's the dream.

Want to know another secret? You're already a great friend for caring. Just keep caring and loving and you won't go wrong. Just be sensitive and use empathy and good judgment before speaking. That's really all you need.

Love,
B

Have any other questions about infertility that you'd like answered? Leave a comment and we may use it in a future post!

IVF Funding

Hi friends. I feel like a jerk for asking, but we need help. Our second IUI did not work, and we are fairly confident we'll be needing IVF in order to build our family biologically. I was initially opposed to IVF because I thought it was just an excuse to feed my own narcissistic need to have babies who look like me, but at our last doctor's appointment, it was explained to us that we'll have a 60% chance of conceiving if we use IVF. And I'm not going to lie to you--I really want to get pregnant. I want to be a part of the biological mom club. I want to know what it feels like to give life. And I totally do want a baby with my eyes and Josh's nose. I want to see our DNA combined into a little love munchkin. I want it so badly. If it doesn't work, that's okay. We can look at our other options then. But imagine if it does work? All of these years of crying and praying and waiting will suddenly seem totally worth it.

The problem is that IVF is pricey. Like $13,000.00 a month pricey. Which is more than Josh and I make combined in three months, to put it into perspective. And we've already got bills because we are adults. And while selling one of my extra kidneys on the black market is tempting (as is becoming a drug dealer or prostitute or begging in the streets), I think I'm just going to throw this out there: we need financial help. We will not be able to afford to have an IVF procedure done for years if we try to save up on our own (which we are also planning on doing). So I set up a gofundme page in hopes that one person will put in $5 and maybe another person will add $5 until we have enough money to make at least one IVF happen. And if IVF doesn't work for us? At least we'll have closure. At least we'll know. Because right now it really stinks knowing that there's technology with much better odds of getting us pregnant that we are missing out on because we happen to be a part of a lower tax bracket.

Remember us? We're just fun-loving folks looking to add on to our family.

Anyway, hi. We need a little help. I won't bug you about it in every post. I won't beg you for it when I see you in the streets. But I'm letting the universe know that we are open to accept financial help at this time. The link to our page is here. Thank you for reading, and thank you for sharing our story.

XOXO,
B

Three Years Ago

One of our last pictures we took together before the deployment. Utah Lake, June 2011

 On this day, three years ago, I kissed my honey goodbye and sent him to war. I sent him to Iraq--to suicide bombers and RPGs and secret missions in secret places he's still not allowed to talk about. I also sent him knowing well that he may not make it home for one reason or another. He promised me he'd come back to me, but you simply can't make promises like that when it comes to war. It is war, after all, where there are people actively trying to kill you, let alone all of the friendly fire and many freak accidents. He's even told me himself that when his base would be mortared that it was a complete lottery: where one man had been standing, he'd be completely destroyed while the man next to him didn't have a scratch. That's the way war works: complete chance, freckled with miracles.

Alex was one of my favorite parts about the deployment. She is amazing. North Shore, Oahu, July or August 2011

 While Josh was gone, I spent six months with his sister. She is one of my very best friends, and we had some crazy adventures together in his absence, with banding together in Hawaii, escaping a crazy lady's house, hiking, swimming, and adventuring, living together again in Utah, and then nannying in Maryland. And being with even just one member of Josh's family made the days easier for me. I still felt connected to him in a way I don't know I would have felt otherwise.

Sunset on the North Shore of Oahu, July or August 2011

I talk a lot about the fun I had while he was gone--and there was a lot of fun--but the truth is that it was really hard too. We'd go for days without even emailing, and I would have no idea how he was doing. I couldn't leave my phone anywhere (just in case he called), and if I missed a call, I'd become so distraught that I would sob uncontrollably for way longer than necessary.I had absolutely no control over our relationship or the communication we shared. Ultimately, I was always afraid for his life. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, in the back of my mind I was worrying about him. I'd make what-if plans in my head for what I'd do if he never came home, and I prayed every night that I wouldn't have to find out. Josh jokes that I just vacationed while he was gone, and I did a lot of that, but there was always the underlying feeling of dread and the sadness of experiencing so much wonder and beauty without being able to share it with the person you care about the most.

We didn't Skype half as often as I'd have liked, but it was amazing to see him when we did.

 The funny thing is that sometimes I miss it. And I know that it's normal for the soldiers themselves to experience nostalgia for war, but I've never heard of a wife wishing her husband would go back. Not because I want him to be in war, exactly, but more that I really enjoyed being completely independent while he was away, and sometimes I miss not having to tell anyone where I'm going or what I'm doing. Sometimes I miss shopping without the constant criticism of how much money I'm spending. Sometimes I miss having only my own messes to clean up. The truth of it is, sometimes I miss having complete freedom. Maybe that sounds weird, and maybe nobody will understand it, but it's true for me. And I know he misses it too.

He's a pretty cool guy, that Joshua.

The past three years have been filled with school and work. They've been spent trying to start our family and moving and beginning professional careers. They've been filled with laughter and love. They've also been filled with depression and heartache and the longing for something more. And, for six months, the last three years also consisted of my sweetheart being gone, training, fighting bad people, and our own separate independence.

Hottest steely-eyed killer I ever saw.

 And really, this post is just about saying thank you to my guy for being brave and coming home and putting up with me in the meantime. I know that I've had my imperfect moments all along the way, but I hope that the love I've got for you can at least cancel some of that out. Thank you for serving, and thank you for coming home to me.

-B

Stop Telling Me I'm a Mother

Okay, so before I begin this post, I just want to say that I am writing this from a place of love. I am not a bitter person. I have bitter days about this whole infertile journey, but I'm not bitter. I had my IUI a week ago and I'm currently just riding the monthly roller coaster that I've been on for three years. In short, life is good around here right now.

That having been said, all of these blog posts floating around about how "all women are mothers" really need to stop. And here's why: these posts have some fallacies in their arguments that inevitably leave someone feeling left out or in disagreement. Really. Stop patronizing us non-moms. We still have plenty of self-worth and identity in other areas. Don't tell me I have to be a mother when I'm still not part of that club yet. I get it that you're trying to make us feel included. I understand that it's just because you love us and don't want to be sad. But really. Just stop.

Does this mean adopted children can never truly understand their mothers' love for them?

My beef starts with how mothers are wonderful for carrying their babies for nine months. I mean, of course this is a selfless sacrifice that many mothers make, but what about all of the women who become mothers through adoption? They don't carry their children in their wombs, but they take care of every other aspect of a child's life. Are they not also true mothers for their late nights cleaning up vomit from their child's bed or poop in the tub? Are they not mothers for the love they have for their children? Should they not receive credit for the hours of helping with homework or the boo-boos they kiss or the time and finances they invest in their children? Of course they are real mothers. They love their babies just as much as the next mother. And it would be ignorant to argue that adopted children do not truly know their mothers' love because they were never inside of their moms. While women who have fulfilled these qualifications are definitely mothers, even if their children have not survived to be mothered, I don't buy this argument in its entirety. This isn't the only path to motherhood.

The next issue I have is with the argument that all women are mothers because all women nurture and love. This article here was undoubtedly written from a place of love, but it leaves much to be desired in its argument. While I agree that most mothers are, by nature, nurturing and loving, motherhood is a club that not all of us women are a part of. Some women choose not to be mothers by choice, and others are in the same boat I'm in where we're stuck at the mercy of medical professionals and the grace of a higher power. In short, we aren't all mothers. We can be teachers, fun aunts, family, friends, or a myriad of other roles within a child's life--but we have never been handed a baby and been able to gaze at it lovingly with the knowledge that we will never have to give it back. We've never delivered a child or adopted one and known that we were mothers, ultimately responsible for the little life in our arms. That's what so many of us want. That's a key aspect of motherhood. We don't have that. That's another reason why we aren't mothers.

These articles have been written from a good place. They've been written in hopes to make some of us left out women feel included on Mother's Day. These don't make us feel included though. It feels fake, hollow, and incomplete. And, here's the thing: we aren't mothers on the other days of the year either and we tend to get along just fine. If you'd like to ease some of the sadness (that some of us may be experiencing) on Mother's Day, ask us what we need. I don't like to have gifts on Mother's Day because I feel like I don't deserve anything. I am not a mother! On Mother's Day, I like to spend time with my own mother. I like to go hiking. I enjoy reading. I'm even working tomorrow. It's not a special day for me this year. Maybe next year I'll have a baby and be in a different place. But this year I'm not. The attempts that everyone makes to have us feel included are sweet, but they make me want to simply remind them that I am not yet a mother and do not need any Mother's Day reminders. End of story.

So, if you gather anything from this post, please remember that those of us without children do not need to hear condescending half-truths. We don't need to be told that we actually are part of this club that we aren't a part of any other time of the year. And it's okay. Birth mothers? You rock. Adoptive mamas? You're amazing. Biological moms? I salute you. Step-moms? Thank you. Foster moms? You make so much more of a difference than you'll ever know. And to any other sort of mother who I've forgotten? I'm sorry. You're raising the future. Thank you for taking the extra time with your little ones and loving them a little more for me. All of society thanks you for taking your role seriously and doing such a good job raising your kids.

Happy Mother's Day.

An Untypical Saturday

An old wives' tale says that if you surround yourself with babies, your body will be irresistibly fertile. Does it count if I'm looking at pictures of baby myself? TBT (except it's Saturday...) to infant Bryn, circa 1988 AD.

My typical Saturday is spent either a) working, b) recovering from working the night before, or c) hanging out solo while my guy works. This is an ongoing thing, and I've come to accept that weekends are not always the times that I will see Joshua. And that's okay. But that's not what happened today.

Today was ultrasound day. So I dragged myself out of bed at 7:30 after working sixteen hours yesterday (and driving two more) and took a shower. And shaved. Because I think it's common courtesy to be presentable for the medical professionals that will be looking around down there. Whatever. Beside the point. Five minutes before go time, I had to wake His Highness up since he "just needs to throw pants on" (his words), and we were out the door. By 8:30. On a Saturday. I think we're growing up. Gross.

Everything at the ultrasound went well. I've got a big egg in each ovary, and neither of them had ovulated yet, which is good because I was on cycle day 14, and this is usually a day 12 kind of thing, and I had been worried that we'd miss our window. I was prescribed my Ovidrell again and told to administer it "right away" so that I'd be able to have my IUI done on Sunday (since I don't have to work). So, we drove over to the pharmacy and picked up the prescription. We administered the shot in the car, all "meth-style," according to Joshua. I don't know much about meth besides my extensive viewing of Breaking Bad, but I'll take my popo's word for it. Anyway, yeah. That happened.

 And then we decided to go and get some breakfast, because by now it was 10:30 on a Saturday morning, and we were in Salt Lake where our options were endless. While we were stopped at a traffic light, Josh saw an older gentleman walking with a cane and carrying a big, heavy box. Josh told me I needed to get in the driver's seat because he was going to go help the man. I drove around the block, since we were in a left turn lane, and when I found Josh and pulled over, he told me we were going to give the man a ride. It turns out he was trying to get downtown (and was way up by the University of Utah). He was new to the area and was returning a Christus (*spelling?) statue to Deseret Book because his church had told him they'd reimburse him for buying it, but because he just moved he needed them to do it right away since he'd skipped buying furniture in order to buy this statue. It was a really sad story, and I was happy to drive (Jack from Friendship Manor) downtown. And when Joshua had walked him inside to Deseret Book and helped him with his statue, we set off again in search of breakfast.

We ended up at the Corner Bakery, which was amazing. Eat there. Maybe not every day, since their french toast is like coffee cake, but at least once. It was so good. Afterwards, we were on our way over to the Gateway mall so I could show Joshua the Urban Art Gallery when I witnessed a drug deal. It was ridiculously obvious. (Who the heck literally buys drugs off of the street corner??) Part of me wanted to yell at the drug dealer and buyer and just let them know I'd seen them, but mostly I didn't want to get shot, so I just told Josh about it. We laughed. Because when you're married to a cop, sometimes that's what you do when you see a drug deal go down at 11:00 on a Saturday morning. Seriously, the kid must have woken up and though I could sure go for some heroin right about now. I just don't get it. Anyway, the gallery was awesome, and Joshy and I got to share some fun moments. Tomorrow they're opening a Star Wars exhibit, and I'm pretty sure Josh is going to talk me into breaking the sabbath to check it out. Whatever. #yolo #AmITrendyNow ?

Let's end this thing, because it's late and I'm a little old lady who should go to bed at 10:00 every night. Anyway, I'm going in for my IUI tomorrow. And then I won't know anything for two weeks. And I think it's kind of rude and tortuous that that's how it works, but whatever. I hope this works, because it's been three LOOONG years of trying, and it's getting old. I'd like to move on with my life or freaking start my life, but I don't feel like I can as long as I'm holding my breath to see if I will ever have a family.

So here's to answers and self-discovery and random acts of kindness and laughing at the things in life you can't control or change. Here's to sunny Saturdays and naps and new sheets of 800 thread count Egyptian cotton heaven against my skin. And here's to tomorrow. May it be even more wonderful than today.