Catching a Rainbow
One year ago today, on August 29, 2017, a tiny misshapen embryo was transferred into my body.
Since Dec. 2012, I had unsuccessfully tried several types of infertility treatments as well as adoption. In March 2017, I reluctantly began in vitro fertilization (IVF). My first embryo transfer resulted in a “technical pregnancy” that didn’t last. The second one stuck at first too, and I was elated to be pregnant. But then my pregnancy levels dropped and I lost the pregnancy. I was devastated.
Including a failed adoption process earlier that year, I’d now had three “close calls” that resulted in no baby. I was depressed and despondent and so tired of all the medicines and hormones that messed with my body and mind. By this point, in total, I’d had six procedures with 11 types of medicines across an accumulative 14 months.
My next step was to transfer my last frozen embryo, one that was initially deemed “inconclusive” when tested and so it was tested again and deemed “good.” I didn’t feel excited about this transfer. I felt apprehensive and worn out.
On August 29, I was flippant and sullen and I did not feel any of the excited anticipation I had during the previous two transfers. I barely looked at the ultrasound screen this time as the transfer took place. At the previous embryo transfers, the technicians commented on how beautiful the embryos looked. No one said that about our poor little butchered embryo that had been frozen and unfrozen three times each and biopsied twice.
I cried during our drive home. I was so sure this wasn’t going to work. I didn’t know how I would get through another miscarriage. I was so sure I’d have to start over and do the whole IVF process again since we had no more frozen embryos. I felt I had to save up my emotional energy.
Ten days later, when my first home pregnancy test said I was pregnant, I cried out of frustration (yes, I did a lot of crying!). How could I do this again? How could I live with such hope only to go through the physical and emotional pain of losing it?
But each day, the line on the tests got stronger. When my first blood test came back positive, but it was low and right around the same level as my previous failed pregnancy, I cried on the phone with the nurse for the first time. She urged me to not give up hope, but I had. Now I had to wait 48 hours until my next blood test to see if my levels doubled.
I can’t explain it, but the next morning, I woke up hopeful and at peace. I thought, if I’m going to miscarry again, let me worry about it when it happens, not now. For now, I AM pregnant.
That afternoon, I went to Target for a few things and on a whim, when I saw a onesie with a rainbow on it, I bought it. Babies who are born after miscarriages or stillbirths are called “rainbow babies” for bringing joy after a storm. I let hope seep in. Maybe I would have a rainbow baby.
The next day, my levels had more than doubled.
While I could hardly dare believe it, that little inconclusive and butchered embryo grew and grew. Every time we checked the heartbeat, it was there, steady and strong.
My baby is four months old now. The rainbow onesie I bought before I knew he’d be viable sat for nearly 12 months on my bathroom counter as a reminder of my journey and that I successfully caught my rainbow. A few days ago, I put it on him and it fit.
My pregnancy was tough during the last few weeks and I was sick a lot. Then my baby came three weeks early and had a shocking medical issue that required an ambulance team from a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at another hospital to come and whisk him away in the night, hours after he was born, in essence, tearing him from my arms. He had surgery on day three of his life and he wasn’t discharged to come home until day 13 of his life. He’s facing more surgeries later this year. I am grateful for the love and support people have given our family during this time.
But I also want to note that for me personally, the years of infertility, of uncertainty, of heartbreak, of physical pain were worse than being pregnant and what’s happened since he was born (although I do worry about his little body having to go through surgery again… but he’s proven over and over that he is strong!). It was worse not knowing if I’d ever become a mom, if anything I was doing would ever result in a baby. It was worse feeling cloaked in shame for not being able to get pregnant. It was worse being a science experiment, trying new drugs and procedures to see what might work. There were days when I didn’t want to get off our couch or out of our house. There were times when I dreaded each day. And almost no one knew. I had a very limited support system. It was a really tough time.
Now, I am eager for each day. My baby wakes up smiley and happy every day. Literally every day. I can’t wait to hug him and see what he will learn or do that day. Yes, things aren’t perfect, BUT HE’S HERE. I AM A MOM.
I can’t believe it’s been a year since he first officially entered my life. I am so happy he’s here.
For everyone who is going through infertility, I hope you will find a happy ending like mine, and if you don’t, I hope you can make peace with that outcome and find joy and meaning in other parts of your life. I also hope you can find support and feel able to reach out for help, something I felt too ashamed to do until the last part of my journey.
If you know someone going through infertility, check in on them periodically. It probably will mean more than you realize. That’s when people really need the support.
