Dear Future Baby

Hi, baby.

I know that is has been awhile, and while I have not written you here, it doesn’t mean I have not been in contact. I talk to you each time I see a beautiful flower or feel the warmth of a sunny day. I sing to you each time I hum while doing the dishes or jam out to the radio while driving. I hug you each time I go in for an appointment or take fertility medication. You are with me, always.

It’s been a busy few months. I graduated, baby. Your mom has her master’s degree now and is starting a new profession that is hard but will make her more of a whole person. I decided to pursue this new career knowing that it will allow me flexibility but also the empathy and patience to be the person I want—for your dad, for our family, for our friends, and for you.

We also did our first round of IUI. The results of my genetic testing delayed us a month as mine came back positive for a rare kidney disease. I was less sad about being a carrier of this unknown disease than I was about being yet another month away from you. Your dad had to get his own set of testing, and when his results showed negative for everything, they allowed us to proceed.

In the weeks leading up to the procedure, I went to the fertility clinic weekly, and sometimes, multiple times a week. I’ve been there so many times that I know exactly what lanes I need to be in to make sure I can make the correct turn when I need to, and I’ve discovered the best place to park that allows me to walk through a green courtyard and then take the river path to the clinic’s entrance instead of walking through a drab, mostly abandoned office building. At one point, black and blue marks on the inside of my arms were indication of my frequency of blood draws.

One day, the clinic called and said that a follicle in my left ovary had reached the right size to schedule the procedure. This was a Friday, and the nurse gave me instructions for the next two days. I was to take an ovulation predictor test on Saturday morning, and if it was not positive, I should do a trigger shot. Then, Sunday, we would come in for the procedure. Also, I needed to take a COVID-19 rapid test and produce my negative results before they would administer the IUI. The call came just as I was getting ready for my afternoon shift at my part-time job. I did not have the trigger shot, which stimulates ovulation if it doesn’t occur naturally, so I had to call a pharmacy to get it that day and then have your dad go pick it up since I would be at work.

Then there was the COVID test. Normally, I wouldn’t have been nervous about that as I have been fully vaccinated for months, but the day before, I found out that I was potentially exposed at my part-time job. Someone I had worked with a few days prior had tested positive, meaning that even though I am vaccinated, I could still have COVID without having any symptoms. Our infertility struggles have included several heartbreaking flukes that it wouldn’t surprise me that my only known contact with this deadly disease would come right before our long-awaited fertility treatments. I scheduled an appointment for after work, and after nearly not being able to do it because I left my ID at home, I got the rapid test done. The nurse was skeptical that I even needed to do the test, as I was vaccinated without symptoms, but I told her I needed it for a medical procedure. The pandemic has been raging in the U.S. for 15 months, and it wasn’t until we started these treatments that I actually got tested (which is an act of God in of itself). By the time I got home, I had a negative result waiting for me in my inbox.

Sunday morning, your dad and I made coffee, and we drove down to the clinic. He went in first to give his sample so it could be scrubbed down to the most effective specimen. I waited in the car, clutching a small key chain with a pineapple and a viral of “baby dust” that a dear friend sent. I also read a card that another dear friend had sent, which I had saved until I knew I would need the love of someone close to me. Inside the card was sticks of gum because her grandmother used to send her gum in cards when she was a kid, and she thought I could use the same pick me up. Both of these friends will love you when you come to Earth.

Then it was my turn. I was in and out in 20 minutes. They gave me a catheter and inserted your dad’s specimen. I clutched the pineapple and baby dust key chain the entire time. Afterwards, your dad and I had cinnamon rolls and eggs at one of your grandmother’s favorite Chicago breakfast diner.

The next two weeks were full of hope. I had to take a hormonal supplement that made me tired, bloated, and nauseous, which I assumed were all symptoms that you were on your way. The supplements made me feel awful, and they were incredibly expensive, but we paid the monetary and physical price if it was what was needed to get to you. These were happy days. I graduated. We saw your grandparents. I ran in the woods. It felt like everything was finally working out, and the world’s timing had finally matched up with yours.

By mid-week of the second week, something started to feel different. I was still feeling sick nearly every day but in a different way. At times, less intense, but at others, more. I can’t explain it other than something shifted.

My pregnancy test was on Monday, two weeks and a day after the IUI, and while I wanted to test so badly, I was able to abstain (well, I did test once but it was with an expired test and late in the day, so I knew it would be negative anyway). I envisioned what that day would be like. I didn’t have work or school anymore, so I would be at home when the nurse called with the results. I wondered how she would tell me I was pregnant, and I hoped she would call with enough time so I could plan a surprise for your dad when he came home.

Friday I was on my way to see some colleagues for the first time in person (in 2020 and 2021, we all worked remotely and communicated only through technology). I was looking forward to the outdoor picnic, but as I was getting ready, I noticed a few drops of blood. It was a bit late for implantation bleeding but certainly not out of the question. I assumed it wasn’t my period as the hormonal supplements were to suppress it, so I hoped that it was just some light, normal spotting. Throughout the evening, I went to the bathroom several times, even when I didn’t need to go, just to make sure that there wasn’t more blood. Still light. I had a couple of ounces of champaign but reframed from drinking, knowing that you could still be on your way.

Just two full days until the test.

That night, by the time I went to bed, I was still spotting, but according to everything I read online, it was still within the normal range. I woke up early, going to the bathroom right away, still spotting. Not ideal, but again, not the end. A couple of hours later, after I had fallen back asleep, the blood seemed slightly heavier. I began to cry, and then crawled into bed with your dad, and cried more.

Though, throughout the rest of the morning, it still did not seem like a full period. I was planning a get-together with some friends, one of our first since the pandemic, to celebrate my graduation. It was to be outside but rain was threatening those plans. I was upset but thankfully dear friends offered their condo for the gathering. It was going to be OK. Your dad and I bought a bunch of snacks and drinks, including some non-alcoholic beer for me, and we were headed out the door when I went to the bathroom one last time.

This is when I realized that you weren’t coming this month. I could no longer give into the naive hope. We had spent all of that time and money only for my period to come as it usually does. Our first round of IUI had failed.

Life can be undeniably cruel at times, and this was one of those moments. I had to push this giant devastation out of my head in order to get some joy out of the celebration. I’ve been more vocal about our struggles, so a few friends asked, but I couldn’t go into much detail. I didn’t want to cry. Instead, I drank quite a bit and then cried hard into your dad’s arms when we got home. I cried again at 3 a.m. when I could not sleep. And again as I was going to work and saw a woman with a newborn swaddled across her chest.

Infertility has an incredible amount of thin layers of grief. You lose the ability to conceive without schedules, medical interventions, and shockingly large bills. You are deprived of the surprise and magic of conception. Your relationship, pride, body, bank account, and faith all takes massive hits. And, then each month you build up so much hope that this is finally going to work out for you to have it all ripped away.

I had long awaited Monday, THE MONDAY, but now I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t contact the fertility clinic over the weekend, but I didn’t want to take a pregnancy test that I knew would definitely be negative. In this moment, we didn’t have a plan. I assumed we would start a new cycle, but I did not know that. Instead, I had to wait until I could talk to our medical team and figure out what is next. If there was a next. Part of me had wished it was the nurse who had told me it was negative rather than getting my period. At least then I would have had a few more days of hope.

I was able to talk to a nurse before my appointment, and she said I should come in for the hcg test but also a baseline assessment. She also recommended an appointment with my doctor to discuss what our next course of action should be. We originally had planned on doing a few rounds of natural cycles, but as your dad and I are moving soon, we only have one or to tries left. We want to make them count.

The doctor, who we’ve only ever interacted with through Zoom calls, agreed that a stimulated cycle, which would release more eggs and give us a greater shot at conception, was the best plan for this month. Because more science is involved, the cycle would be shorter than my natural one. I begin the stimulating medicine in two days, and then we’ll start monitory. We are back on track.

This weekend was hard. I didn’t know if I could continue, but today, after moving forward with the new plan, I can’t imagine not continuing. Sure, this was a disappointment, but someone recently told me that you taking a while to get to us means you are going to be a truly special person in the world. I am OK with that.

Love you.

Mom