The Tea on Infertility

If you know my family, or have read my intro post, then you may think that me spilling tea on infertility seems ironic, considering that I have three kids. However, there is a major age gap between my oldest and middle child. I loathe when people say, “Man, you sure waited a while before you had more kids”. That age gap represents over a decade of pain, heartache, shame, frustration, anger, sadness, and waiting. I can tell you that nothing about my story is ironic, but completely divine…just wait. I am not sure that I have ever really told my whole infertility journey to anyone in detail from top to bottom. Sure, my husband and mom know the events that occurred throughout the process, but even then, there were some emotional aspects that were too painful or embarrassing to admit to them. Some of the things that I will reveal about myself in this post are not things that I am proud of, but merely me being human and vulnerable in a time of darkness and struggle. Why would I share such things about myself? Because I need you to understand how big God is in spite of me and my short comings. I will go ahead and preface this post by saying that I won’t get all of the medical terms correct, and after years of trying to forget it, I will probably leave out a detail or two, but if correct medical jargon is what you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place. I am also not here to debate religion. I know how great my God is, and I will be glad to tell you about Him, matter of fact, I will do that here shortly. With that being said, I sincerely pray, if you are someone who has, or is, struggling with infertility, that a mere piece of this story blesses you.

We had Sugar Bear, our daughter, when we were 20 years old. We were young, scared, hopeful, naive, surprised, did I mention young, but both dedicated to being the best parents we were prepared to be at the time. My husband and I were not married then, and we were still figuring out who we were as individuals, as a couple, and as parents. We were hot and cold for the first couple of years of parenthood, and it took a lot of work and dedication to each other and our daughter, growing up together, and Jesus (heavy on the Jesus), to build a stable foundation for our little family. The summer after Sugar Bear turned four years old, I chose him, he chose me, and we chose us, in front of the fountain outside our little smalltown courthouse. She started pre-k that fall and was a bit more independent, we were no longer paying for daycare costs, and we were in a significantly better place mentally, emotionally, and financially. It seemed like the most ideal time to grow our little family by two more feet.

I no longer exactly remember how long it was that we were trying to get pregnant before I thought something could be wrong….2 years? Maybe 3? I mean, we had one kid already, so it was nowhere on my radar. I made a routine appointment anyway and nearly rescheduled when the day arrived. Turns out, it would be the last routine appointment for a while. I talked to my doctor about our difficulty conceiving, and she recommended that I come back in a few weeks to have blood drawn to see if my results could give us a starting point. I went in for a quick lab draw and back again the following week when the doctor would have my results in hand to review with me. I had no idea what to expect…but I definitely didn’t expect to be told that I had not ovulated that month…. What? Huh? How? I had fairly normal cycles, so how could I not be ovulating? I have already had one child; how can it be that hard to have another? Is this what has been going on for the past few years?” So. Many. Thoughts. It was a blow to the gut that was absolutely out of left field. I sat there shell-shocked, trying to process what I just heard. Next steps: come back the next month, a few days before I was supposed to ovulate, to have an ultrasound to see if any eggs were developing.

I returned for the ultrasound as instructed and had a visit scheduled with the doctor immediately after. During that appointment, she assured me that she could see mature eggs in my follicles, as she pointed them out on her black and white prints, and wanted me to come back to have labs drawn again a few days after ovulating. Those levels would tell her if the eggs we were seeing had been released, ensuring ovulation that month. I had so much hope when I left that appointment, y’all. There were eggs there, she could see them, I could see them, this was going to be the month! Oh, how many times I thought that over the course of a decade…”this is going to be the month”. It had only been a couple months since I had the initial appointment and I had already had more lab draws, ultrasounds, and appointments than I had in the last 20 years. I was definitely naive about how much more complicated things could get. I just considered this a small hurdle that we had to go through, but I had hope in my body to be able to do what it should do naturally. I was still young.

I went back a couple days after my ovulation window for more lab work and again about a week later to see the doctor to review the results. The levels she was looking for were barely within normal limits, so she couldn’t ensure me that I had ovulated, but the levels were higher than last month, so it looked promising. She recommended that I start a medication that was normally given to diabetics but was proven to be effective in assisting women to ovulate on their own. “Take this for the next six months and we will follow up after that if you still aren’t pregnant”, she said. Ok. Cool. My levels were higher. This medication seemed promising. We had a plan. Let’s stop by the pharmacy on the way home! Yall, those things were like horse pills. I hated taking those meds, but I was dedicated to the cause, and inhaled those suckers daily for six months before I was sitting right back in her office. By this time, it had been about four years trying to conceive with no new baby and more questions than answers. When I was sitting in her office, the doctor said she believed it was time to start fertility medication. I was to take it for the next three months, and it would ensure ovulation without question. She warned of possibility of multiple pregnancies due to its effectiveness, and I walked out of that office like I had never had hope before and just received a basket of it.

I remember going home and instantly googling success stories from women that had gotten pregnant when taking the medication I had received that day. So many stories of success….my basket of hope had now turned into a wagon. So, we got busy! Something I should admit here is that I started to treat intimacy like a job. It was still fun, enjoyable, and a moment between my spouse and I, but it was also scheduled, and tracked, and held so many expectations of the future. It was around this time that I found out a close friend was pregnant, and within a few weeks, another friend was happily expecting. I was beyond excited for them, and I know that they absolutely know that to this day, but that didn’t make their news sting any less. Why not me? Wasn’t I just as deserving? I also thought, “maybe these meds will work, and we can all have babies together!!”. But I was still waiting…watching their bellies grow and seeing them prepare to bring a new addition into the world. So here I was, mad because I wanted something so badly that felt just out of reach, jealous because others were getting what I wanted, and shameful because of my jealousy. But I had hope in this medicine. Gosh, it makes me sick to type that now…I had hope in a pill, not faith in my God. After the first month of taking the medication, my period was a day or two late. I couldn’t wait to take a pregnancy test. I had taken so many over the years, but this time felt different. I just knew I wouldn’t leave the bathroom with Earth shattering disappointment, but I was wrong, and sad, again. This happened for the remaining two months on this medication…late cycle…hopeful for good news…ultimate disappointment. After I finished those three rounds of medication and still not pregnant, I was given another three months dose. I had begun to lose hope in that medicine. I had been advised by my doctor that if this round didn’t work, we would have to figure out another course of action. My wagon of hope had turned into a morsel again. As you can suspect by now, those three rounds didn’t work, and I went on birth control for a little bit to give my mind, my heart, and my body a break.

After about six months to a year on birth control, I was ready to embrace the difficult once again and take the next step in fertility treatment, whatever that may be. I met with my doctor again, and she suggested that I have a procedure where they inject dye into your cervix and fallopian tubes so they can look at them on camera and make sure everything is as it should be. She felt like we had done everything we could from an ovulation perspective, so there must be something else hindering our progress. She also said that the procedure itself may help the process, because the dye sort of flushes everything out, making some women more fertile. It was a few months before they could get me in for that procedure. I laid so vulnerably on that cold metal table as they inserted the dye and began to look at my insides on the screen, taking numerous pictures and notes with many swift clicks of the mouse and a few taps on the keyboard. I could crane my neck and see the screen but had no idea what I was looking at. The only thing I remember about the rest of the appointment is the doctor saying, “you may feel a little bit of pressure here”, and after a few short seconds, I begged her to stop. That was no pressure, but the most excruciating pain that I had ever felt (and I had given birth before). One of my fallopian tubes was completely blocked and the doctor had attempted to push the dye through the tube, seeing if she could clear the blockage. It wouldn’t budge, and I couldn’t take anymore. Ok, so we had found another hurdle…blocked fallopian tube…but that wasn’t all…I was also diagnosed with PCOS upon leaving that appointment. The answer? Surgery.

Just before the surgery, my doctor told me that she would also try to remove the obstruction in my fallopian tube, but if she couldn’t clear it, she would have to remove it. An hour or so later, I awoke from the anesthesia. She said the endometriosis was severe and showed me pictures of a normal cervix vs. what she had taken of mine. I still can’t believe what I saw. No wonder I couldn’t get pregnant. My cervix was a spider web of tissue, with tissue even growing outside of my reproductive organs and trying to attach to other parts of my abdomen. The spider webs were removed, but unfortunately, so was my left fallopian tube. She said there was no other way around it. It was blocked beyond repair. Even still, I was discharged with more hope as I was being briefed to leave the hospital, “you should be extra fertile now that everything has been cleaned out, and don’t worry, your remaining fallopian tube should travel back and forth depending on the ovary that you are ovulating from; blah, blah, blah, if you aren’t pregnant in the next three months or so, you will need to start birth control again or the endometriosis will come back.” Here we go again.

I was in an incredible amount of pain after that procedure and don’t remember a ton about the rest of that day, but I do remember thinking how casually she told me that a part of my body had to be removed. I mean, a piece of my reproductive system was tied up in a red biohazard trash bag in the bottom of some trash can at the hospital and I am supposed to have hope? I was beyond hopeless, but I held on. After all, we had fixed what we thought was the major issue that was preventing pregnancy, so I really did have better chances this time, right?!? Wrong. Wrong again for so many more months…years. I didn’t ever really give up, but I had lost all hope. I timed intimacy sometimes, and other times I felt like trying to conceive wasn’t in the forefront of my mind anymore. I didn’t stop longing, and yearning, and hurting, though. I found myself bitter and resentful. If I was around a pregnant person and they began to complain about anything pregnancy related, I would say things like, “well at least you are pregnant”. There were women who mean the world to me that were terrified to tell me when they each got pregnant with their babies because of the way I had behaved. I went to so many baby showers, hosted a few too, where I was fighting back tears as I watched the expectant mothers glow with love as they opened their precious gifts for their coming babies. I held so many newborns that belonged to the people I hold near and dear to my heart while my gut physically hurt for one of my own. I got good at putting on happy face, not so good with my sideways comments, and I was becoming angry with God. I was defeated and confused. I would tell myself that when I got to heaven that I was going to ask Jesus why. I needed to know the purpose of this struggle. I just couldn’t understand. I would try to talk to others about it, but I would always get the same comments that brought no comfort: “You are just trying too hard”, “It will happen when it is supposed to happen”, or my personal favorite, “Well, at least you have Sugar Bear”. That last comment always made me feel the worst…and terribly guilty. Just because I longed to be a mother again more than I could bear didn’t make me any less grateful and blessed for the child I had. If anything, it made me soak up every second of her childhood even more. Looking back, I cringe at how I felt and behaved, but my heart also swells with joy because I know what happens next.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that things started to shift, but sometime after my surgery, I was tired, so very, very tired of all the appointments and disappointments and medicine. I was tired of being angry and resentful and shameful. I never went to another appointment that concerned fertility. Instead of praying for a baby, my prayers changed towards things I wanted to fix about myself…things that God wanted to change in me. Instead of obsessing about timing and cycles and trying to force things that seemed impossible, I threw myself wholeheartedly into Sugar Bear and the students I was teaching every day. Occasionally I would daydream about pregnancy, but it no longer consumed every ounce of my being. This also helped with the many, many emotions I had been battling. Many of them never went away, but they weren’t even half as intense as they had been. My husband and I even briefly discussed it being pointless now…Sugar Bear was a pre-teen, and we were in a different stage of parenthood than before.

We began this journey in the fall of 2011. Fastforward to May of 2020…pregnancy was something that rarely crossed my mind anymore, but I was a week or so late, so it was a thought. I was going to meet some friends for margaritas and remember thinking, “maybe I should take a test just in case”. I just couldn’t make myself do it. After all those years of disappointment and heartache, I didn’t want to entertain the idea. I can’t tell you how many times I stood over one of those sticks staring and trying to decide if I could see a faint line, and I wasn’t going to do it again. I did NOT want to have hope again. Then, Father’s Day came around. I was still late and considered how cool it would be if I was pregnant and could share that with my husband on Father’s Day, but that is as far as I would let myself think about it. A week or so later, I was still late and forced myself to go get a test. I knew no one would be at home that afternoon, so if it was negative, I would have some time alone to deal with it. I came home, took the test, laid it on the sink, and hopped in the shower. I felt like that test was staring a hole straight through the shower curtain, willing me to look at it, but I wouldn’t dare.

Lord only knows how many minutes went by before I was brave enough, but I reached out from behind the curtain, grabbed hold of the test, and peeked. What I do know is when I looked, I was completely breathless…utter shock. There, plain as day, were two pink lines. I never dreamed that this day would ever come. I remember thinking about how and when I wanted to tell my husband. I had daydreamed many times about how I would announce my pregnancy if it did, but not one of those ideas came to mind. One thing I did know is that I couldn’t wait long. Joy was radiating off of me and it would be absolutely obvious that something suspicious was going on. He had received a package a few days prior, so I used the same box, placed the test inside and waited anxiously until he got home. When he did, we went through our usual daily run-down…kiss, kiss…how was your day?…yada, yada, yada. I casually handed him the box, told him another package came that day, and tried oh so discreetly to film his reaction as he opened. I will forever remember two things from that moment…his smile and the words “we finally did it, babe” flowing over my trembling lips. It was one of the most perfect days of my life. I spent the rest of the evening downloading apps to predict my due date, the baby’s gender, monthly fetal milestones, etc.

We welcomed SONshine in February of 2021, just before Sugar Bear’s FOURTEENTH birthday. We were ecstatic, blessed, humbled, and ready for the journey we had fought so hard for. Having him was exactly what our family needed. The next couple of years proved to be nothing short of fantastic. In November of 2022, I got a message from a friend telling me she had the weirdest dream the night before that I was pregnant. We laughed it off and went about our days, but her comment stuck with me. I began to think about the last time I had a period. It wasn’t something I kept track of anymore and had a hard time recalling a date or time frame. I asked my husband if he remembered, he didn’t, and then I dismissed it. The next evening, a feeling in my gut told me to go get a test. I came home from work, went straight to the bathroom, and did my business. I left the test on the sink and went to check in with the family. At some point in the middle of cooking dinner, I went back to the bathroom and looked at the test….”PREGNANT”. I could not believe my eyes. How could this be? It took us ten years to have the last one and he isn’t even two yet. I went back and finished cooking, pushed my food around my plate as we ate, and sat there bewildered. We finished dinner, cleared the table, and I climbed in my husband’s lap as he sat in the recliner.

Me: “Will you love me forever?”

Him: “You’re just saying that because you think you may be pregnant.” (Remember, I had asked him about my last period already)

Me: “I’m saying it because I am.”

Him: Absolute surprise.

Still in disbelief, I took another test that night….only a couple hours later…if it is positive, too, then it must be right. Sure enough…positive. We told Sugar Bear that evening, but I still wasn’t convinced. I had a conference a few towns over the next day. I stopped at Walgreens on the way to the convention center, grabbed a three-pack of pregnancy tests, walked my way into the Marriot conference room, and quietly entered the bathroom. I waited in that middle stall for what seemed like hours as each test turned positive before my eyes. Don’t get me wrong, my refusal to believe had nothing to do with regret, but a reflection of the infertility trauma I had experienced. I spent the next nine months wondering what life would be like as a family of five. Let me tell you, it is nothing short of everything I ever dreamed of and even some things I could have never dreamed of. Mo arrived in June of 2023, and we are only weeks away from celebrating his first birthday.

Boy. Was. It. Worth. The. Wait. And now, I know exactly why I needed to wait. God knew there is no way on His green Earth that I would have been able to be a thriving mother to these two boys ten years ago. God knew that I wouldn’t just be raising a bouncing baby boy, but there would be one coming along right after him. God knew Sugar Bear needed to be the only child for a while longer. God knew my husband and I needed to experience heartache together. God knew I needed to become a teacher and impact the lives of numerous students. Most importantly, God has been tugging on my heartstrings to tell this story, this TESTIMONY, that He has a perfect plan for our lives. You hear me? A PERFECT PLAN…not what our mediocre minds conceive as perfect…but more perfect than we could ever conceive. If you are struggling with infertility, I am not going to be the one that tells you that “I will happen when it is supposed to”, because I hated that, and it never helped. What I am going to say is: In your time of waiting and sorrow, seek His plan for your life. Your soul will thank you. He is faithful and He will provide. Let go of what you cannot control and put faith in the One that controls everything. Give Him freedom in your life and pray for grace as you embrace what comes your way. You will be blessed more that you can imagine. “For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11.

I would love to hear your story on infertility…I promise it is therapeutic….so send me what you’ve got. I would love to add you and your aspirations for your family to my prayer list, so send me those prayer requests as well. Maybe you aren’t struggling with infertility personally, but know someone who is, please share this with them. There is still hope. God hasn’t forgotten His promises, but until your moment comes, lean on Him through the journey.

That’s all the tea for now,