We had two PGS normal embryos left that were frozen. We were really on the fence about transferring one or two, but in the end we had decided on transferring one. We knew that this was it. This was our last transfer. I can’t stand to think about another retrieval. And I can’t take the heartache anymore. It’s been too long, with no results. Nothing to show for all the hard work we have been through.
We arrived at my fertility clinic on April 18th at 8:40am to prep for transfer. I was a ball of nerves. I’d been through it all before…I knew the drill by heart. I could tell you the discharge instructions without skipping a beat. But I was nervous about the embryo thawing. Nervous knowing that this was it…if this didn’t work we would have to explore other options. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing any more embryos. We had already lost 10 to miscarriages or failed transfers.
Our worst nightmare was confirmed when we found out the first embryo they thawed for transfer didn’t survive. So they had to thaw our final embryo. That’s right…our final embryo…we had nothing left after this one. ALL of our faith was in this little baby. Our 12th and final embryo. I referred to it as “the little embryo that could”
It was confirmed via blood test on April 27th that I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t “feel” pregnant like I had before. I just knew in my heart, it was over. Wednesday night before beta, I took a home pregnancy test and it was negative. I sobbed all night while Matt held me. We have nothing left. No more embryos.
Each one of you has followed our journey and had just as much hope for us to have a baby as we had for ourselves. We wanted to share with you, with tears in my eyes, that our journey (for me to conceive a baby) has ended. I wish it was a fairy tale ending, the one we all prayed so hard for, but it isn’t. I don’t have a baby, with my eyes or Matt’s smile, with ten little fingers and ten little toes. I don’t have a baby bump to show off or touch and sing to my baby. I’ll never get the chance to feel my baby kick in my stomach. I’ll never be able to enjoy throwing up in the toilet for morning sickness. I’ll never get to have one of those fun gender reveal parties. Or send out adorable baby announcements. I’ll never be in a hospital room, surrounded by loved ones, holding my newborn baby in my arms. And for that, I am truly heartbroken. It’s the kind of heart ache you can feel in your bones. This doesn’t seem real.
Four years trying and we couldn’t make it happen. Our dream. Living life by IVF timelines, so many injections that made me feel like a human pincushion, schedules, monitoring appointments, and the constant rollercoaster of emotions. The bruises, the pain, the blood. The numerous naive, hurtful comments from people about our journey. Several appointments every week to our fertility clinic in different cities. A soul crushing disease that has been completely devastating. All of it…pure hell…and nothing to show for it…NOTHING.
The countless pregnancy announcements, birth announcements, and baby pictures all over social media. The constant memes on Facebook of parents complaining about having kids. Kids that I’ve so often longed for and dreamed of having. Multiple baby shower invites. Family and friends having multiple babies in the time we have tried to have one. Friendships that have turned into acquaintances because they don’t understand what you’re going through and don’t care to try. Or even share their support. It’s all just been too much.
So, thank you to those who have genuinely stood by us this entire time. Through good times and bad. Thank you for your continued prayers. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you for everything you’ve done for us. And for following our journey.
Thank you to our doctor and our nurses at our fertility clinic that have become more like family. The hugs, the “I love yous” and your constant encouragement meant more than you know. Thank you to ALL of my fellow TTC sisters – I could not have gotten through this journey without you; I was blessed to have met you and I look forward to watching all your dreams come true.
Four years of infertility. Three egg retrievals. Eight rounds of IVF. Six embryo transfers. Twelve embryos lost. Hundreds upon hundreds of injections pumped into my body. Thousands of dollars spent. Countless tears. And nothing to show for it.