The B Word: Infertility and Other Conversations

Dedicated to those still in waiting. May you find comfort, strength and peace.

Contents

Forward 08 Introduction 12 The Beginning 16 Teaching 22 Therapy 34 Faith and Hope 40 Doctor’s Orders 48 The Holidays 54 The Two-Week Wait 58 Music is Everything 62 My Body 68 Opening Up 80 Moving Forward 84 This Was It 92 Insurance 96 The IVF Cycle 102 The Call 110 The Journey’s Over 116 Life After the Good News 122

Coronavirus and Pregnancy 134 An Interview with my Husband 150 Afterword 156 Resources for You 162 Notes 164 Bibliography 166 Acknowledgements 168

Forward

“Truthfully, though, it felt like the cruelest twist that it was going to be such an uphill battle for a child that was so wanted.” —Sonia, sister

If you bought this book, chances are you’re experiencing infertility or someone close to you is. If you’re truly reading this book, maybe you’re reading to find comfort in this process, maybe you’re reading to learn more about what might lie ahead for you, or maybe you’re reading to just understand what someone is going through.

I hope what I’ve written brings you all of that. I want you to know that I’ve written this book as I’ve experienced each aspect of my journey. As I began my treatments I started writing and didn’t stop until I felt I had shared every bit that was important to me. My journey may be similar to yours, and that’s okay. My journey may be very different from yours, and that’s okay. The important part here is that you’re not alone and you will get through this.

If you are reading this for yourself, I hope this book helps you feel less alone. If you are reading this for a family member or friend, I hope this helps you understand a little more about what your loved one might be going through. This can’t be a forbidden thing to talk about anymore, and it certainly can’t be something to be ashamed about. The silence is what hurts the most. I hope you get to the point I got to, if you haven’t already, where you can share your feelings and open up. It will help you move forward, whatever that may look like.

I’m writing this from my perspective only and I am no expert by any means. My purpose for this book is to share my experience, raise awareness, and help those who are suffering in silence. I don’t want you to feel bad for me. I simply want you to understand what me, my family, and so many others are experiencing. We are

expected to carry on with life while dealing with this heavy thing that should be so natural, but is the farthest thing from it. On this long, long journey I have come to realize that it truly is a miracle.

Introduction

“It really opened my eyes to how we treat women of child-bearing age.” —Sonia

You know the sound nails on a chalkboard makes? That screeching, painful, make-you-shake-your-head-and-cringe sound? That is exactly what it was like for me when anything concerning the word “baby” came up.

People can be cruel, whether they mean to be or not. I think that’s the hardest part of this: having to deal with them. Unless you’re going through infertility, no one truly understands all of the curve balls thrown your way. They can imagine and think it is difficult, and it is, but it’s so much more complicated than that. I know some people who ask questions genuinely mean well and want happiness for me and my family, but I also know there are people who don’t have good intentions. The pressures, the expectations, the next step you’re supposed to be doing in life; you’re in a relationship, they ask when you’re getting married; you get married and then there it is: the B word.

“When are you going to have a baby?”
It’s like we pass the two year mark for any milestone and we are on to the next

“thing” of society’s life expectations.

My husband and I have been blessed to have a beautiful son. He’s happy, healthy, and full of energy. When my son was close to turning two, that’s when it all started:

“When’s the next one on the way? Don’t wait too long. You want them close in age!”

“Will you have any more?”
“You better get going with your husband tonight!”

“He really needs a sibling...”

Is there nothing else to talk about? These comments are so loaded; filled with heartache, sadness, anger, hope, frustration, emptiness, longing, love, hate, sorrow. The statements were like daggers to my heart because I so badly wanted to answer with, “YES! I want more. YES! I want them to be close in age. YES! I want my son to know what it’s like to have a sibling because I know how amazing it is. YES! YES! YES!” But, unfortunately, the real answer was no.

“No, I don’t have one on the way. No, I don’t want a large age gap. No, I’m not pregnant. NO.”

I love my son so much, I can’t put it into words. He’s the happiest, most lovable boy you’ll ever meet. He’s kind, has good manners (most of the time), likes to annoy the crap out of me with loud squeaky noises and hearing his voice echo through the house. He wants me all the time; bed time, nap time, play time, you name it. He loves to go to school, color, paint, build with blocks, put puzzles together, and more. It’s wonderful. It’s the best feeling in the world and I know how lucky I truly am.

I’m so thankful to have my son while so many women struggle to just have their first child. I know. I also know there are so many women out there that have “secondary infertility,” which shares many of the same causes as primary infertility.1 It’s very difficult to understand how your body can make one beautiful baby, yet can’t make another one.

Why is that? My first pregnancy wasn’t that long ago and I got in better shape afterwards than I was before the pregnancy. What the hell?!

It doesn’t make sense to me; especially when couples like my husband and myself have focused on our lifestyle. We exercise at least 4–5 times per week with running and walking (we used to only exercise 1-2 times per week). We eat healthier. We drink a ton of water and only have a couple of beers or glasses of wine per week.

We don’t smoke or do any drugs. We take our vitamins. We’re good, honest, hard-working people. I don’t get it.

If you told me before this that it would take 2 years or so before I would get pregnant, and that I would have a girl, I wouldn’t have believed you. I may not have even believed in myself enough to continue to push through all of the treatments. But I did it somehow. It was a very hard road for me and my husband, but I’m proud of us for all that we did together. We will never forget this difficult time in our lives. It has changed us. There's no doubt about that. We are forever grateful for science, our doctors and nurses at RMA, and all of the support we received from our family and friends.

I don’t know why it worked out the way it did. I don’t have those answers; all I have is my experience. I know it may be hard to read that my story “ended” with a successful pregnancy and a healthy baby. My purpose for sharing my story though, is not to talk about only that, but to talk about all of the emotions and hard things with infertility. I want my story to bring you comfort, strength, and hope.

And so, here is my journey from start to “finish.”

The Beginning

“So, we had fun ‘trying’ and then more 'trying,’ until ‘trying’ started to feel like a defeated effort.” —Vicki, friend from high school

We decided. Decided to try again for a second baby. This had to be a conversation, like a green flag to begin. Obviously, it takes two to tango here. I wanted more babies and my husband did, too. I didn’t feel that our family was complete yet. I didn’t feel complete yet.

I’ve always wanted two or three children. I grew up in a large, Italian family and it was the greatest as a child — it still is. Growing up, there were 13 of us cousins, and then there were the aunts, uncles, grandparents — and, of course, countless memories. I am the oldest of three, with a younger brother and sister. I loved every second of being surrounded by so many family members. We love each other and would do anything for one another, but we also keep it real. We were raised to be respectful, work hard, be responsible, and never give up. We also went to church every Sunday. My Nonna and Nonno, my mom’s parents, were very religious. I believed they had a straight line to God, and I still believe that.

With that said, it was kind of expected that everyone would get married and have lots of babies when they grew up. No one ever thought it would be difficult to do those things, including me.

It all began in January of 2018. It was date night and my husband and I were at our favorite Italian restaurant. My son was going to turn two the following month and I had been thinking about it for a little while by then. My husband and I talked it through, drank some wine, and got excited to grow our family.

The first few months of negative pregnancy tests were not alarming to us since it took about 3-4 months to conceive our first child. We didn’t think it would happen right away. We expected it would take around that or a bit longer now that we were in our 30s.

We didn’t think it would take 6 months, 8 months, 10 months, more than a year, 2 years. I wrote this chapter in August of 2019 and I still wasn’t pregnant. When it got to the 6–7 month marker and we still had negative results, deep down I already felt that something was wrong.

There are no words to describe what it’s like to get your period month after month after month, when all you want is to be pregnant. When it comes to infertility, you feel like a failure. You want it so bad that you check everything in your lifestyle and make sure it’s only beneficial to conceive. You exercise on a regular basis, you eat cleaner, you do more deep breathing, you drink more water, you go for peaceful walks, you try and be mindful of your relationships with family, friends, coworkers, you work harder at your job, you work harder at being a wife, you make sure you spend that quality time with your only child. You do more. But it’s not enough.

It just exhausts you some days. Some days you want to cry — a lot. Some days you want to full-blown scream at everything and ugly cry every second of the day because no matter where you look, something reminds you of babies and pregnancy and that you don’t have that. The way it feels is indescribable. You feel like you have just been gutted from your heart to your belly. You can’t help it. You feel like you’ve failed. Something won’t let you be what you were created on this earth to be.

You can’t create another baby? God, why? Don’t you see I’m in pain? So, so much pain? I know you have a plan and I’m trying so very hard to have faith, but there are days when I am so mad at you. Days that I’m drained and done waiting. Days like when I get the phone call from my doctor’s office that the test came back negative;

“call back on day one” (day one of your period, for those who don’t know). Yep, thanks for the reminder. I know the drill, as I hold back the tears of yet again being let down.

This puts me into a whole downward cycle for a bit. It takes me time to wrap my head around the why and think back to what we did last month that maybe we could fix this month. I know that sounds crazy, but after you’ve been trying for so long that’s what you think about.

Being a teacher doesn’t help either. I’m constantly planning and trying to problem solve, so I think I can do this too. But I know I can’t.

I know we are trying to do all of the right things. I think that might be the hardest part; that we know we are doing everything possible to make it the best possible environment for a baby and it’s still not working. It drives you crazy, literally. You go down the rabbit hole of trying to find the reason why it didn’t happen this month. After all of the medications, injections, patience, and hope you put your body through physically and mentally — it still wasn’t enough. You feel like a failure. You feel like you did something wrong to cause this and you beat yourself up over it.

When I would look at my son during these moments, I’d think to myself, “Why can’t I create a sibling for you?” It made my heart ache to see him and think that it wouldn’t work out again. It would make me process that yet another month had gone by. Now my babies would be ... how many years and months apart? That’s one of the things I would think about each time I would get the bad news or get my period. My son would be x many years apart from his sibling. What would their relationship be like? Would they be close or not get along at all because they were so far apart in age? So many questions and scenarios would run through my mind.

The pressures from the outside world don’t help you feel any better either, that’s for sure. Getting the questions about having another baby, or being told that I really shouldn’t wait too long so they are close in age — none of those comments are helpful. They are only hurtful.

If only people knew what I had been going through. That’s why I began writing this book. I knew I needed to write this when I was in the middle of treatments. I had just gotten another negative result from my nurse. I knew deep down that this was something I had to do. This book is meant to bring awareness to people of what is actually going on with so many women. It’s to bring attention to something that is so much bigger than what society thinks. I also wanted to write this book to help people. I want to let women and men know: they’re not alone in this.

Teaching

“I remember being at work when I received the call...” —Vicki

The end of summer is always busy for me; gearing up for the new school year, getting excited for a fresh new start. However, dealing with infertility put a damper on life itself. During that time, my joy wasn’t at full force as it usually was.

I know not everyone is a teacher, but for those who are, you can relate. You have to give your all everyday — all day, especially with little ones. I teach second grade and in the beginning of the year they are more like first graders who need a lot of guidance and support. As the year goes on, they get better and better at becoming more independent.

Well, the year I came to find out I had secondary infertility, to top it all off, I got probably the hardest class I have ever had in my career. That whole independence thing didn’t really happen. Each kid in this class had their own unique personality. Each of them needed something from me. There were behavioral needs, special education needs, emotional needs, academic needs — and then I had to teach the curriculum.

I had help through a Special Education (SPED) Teacher and an aide in my classroom every day, but most days were extremely draining and hard. Every day, I felt like I gave my all to these kids and I had nothing left to give after they left. I had to dig deep, so deep, to do my best teaching for them. It was my job and I didn’t know how else to do it. It wasn’t in my nature to give 50 percent or even 80 percent. I was raised and taught to always try and do my best no matter what and so that’s what I did — until I was a little past halfway through the school year.

When the going got tough, I couldn’t understand how I was still dealing with similar issues and how difficult it still was. It was February and I was close to burning

out. Sure, did what I have going on in my personal life make it even harder to have my usual full blown happiness and pep-in-my-step? Abso-fucking-lutely! But I kept my head up as high as I could and kept doing my job because those kids needed me. Even though I would deal with temper tantrums, talk-back attitudes, fear of getting hit, or just kids crying in the middle of a lesson because they didn’t understand it right away, I pushed through. I got used to having administration in and out of my room, the door opening and closing all the time. I had to adjust big time.

The “Calming Corner” was utilized often. If you don’t know what that is, go on Pinterest. You’ll find a ton of resources. I used to call it the “Calm Caddy,” which had different tools to help students calm down, like stress balls, a Rubix cube, and legos. They use a timer and once the time is up they have to come back to join the class. Let me tell ya, I used that corner just as much as the kids did that year!

It was a difficult year to say the least. I couldn’t just go in to work an hour late or leave an hour early like some people may be able to do in other careers. I had to be clocked in by 8:25 each morning and could not leave until 3:40 each afternoon, excluding every Monday, which were meeting days and we stayed until 4:40 pm.

The good thing was that the Reproductive Medicine Associates (RMA), the clinic where I went for tests, blood work, and ultrasounds, worked around people who had jobs. They opened at 6 am so that you could go get your blood work and ultrasounds and whatever else done before work without having to take time off. Thank God for that. However, when you have to go in multiple times a week or month, you don’t get lucky every time. You’re not the only one doing the same thing. There were multiple days that it was backed up by at least a half hour. I was 40 minutes away from work so I was on a tight schedule. I was always rushing, rushing, rushing. It brought my blood pressure up big time, which I’m sure didn’t help the situation.

Eventually, I had to tell my boss what was going on because I was coming in late a couple times a week. I’m always one to be honest and upfront; I think it serves

you best no matter the situation. Of course, my boss was very supportive and I was so appreciative of that. It put me more at ease.

But I also didn’t like being late to work. Each morning was a juggle to get out the door. My husband and I had to take turns taking my son to daycare when I had to go in to get monitored, which threw off everything. It meant we had to wake up that much earlier; get everything ready to go that much quicker. It was hard to basically run a marathon before I even got to work for a full day of teaching. There was always so much to do and not enough time. There was no room for relaxing or easing into my day.

Once it was time to begin shots and be on a schedule, I had to do even more planning and coordinating. I was starting Ovulation Induction (OI) injections, which help produce multiple eggs, thereby increasing chances of conception. By this time, it was the end of the school year. Thankfully, work was slowly coming to a wrap. However, the stress of starting something new and intense didn’t help my mental health at all.

I don’t think I was really happy that school year. Everything was just a mess, for me at least. I had so much going on in my head with trying to juggle my life and trying to be strong as a teacher, especially for that class because I knew they needed more. You could say I ran myself into the ground by trying to give 100 percent in every “job” that I had, which in turn made me nuts. I definitely didn’t give 100 percent to each part of me because that’s just impossible. I know this now.

The shots, the routine blood work, and the ultrasounds continued throughout the summer, and throughout the next fall and winter as well. For each phase of treatments, the amount of times I had to go in for monitoring varied. Monitoring is what we “infertiles” call the wee morning hours of blood draws, ultrasounds, pelvic checks — the whole shebang. Yes, bright and early, we would have all this done, several times a week sometimes.

In the beginning, when I started off just taking Clomid pills, monitoring happened maybe once a week or every other week. Then, the next phase I went in a little more, maybe once a week. Once I started the intrauterine insemination (IUI) process, it was even more — about 1–2 times a week. Eventually, it was 2–3 times a week, especially when I began in vitro fertilization (IVF).

With each phase, it was more because the process was more. More medications were involved, therefore more monitoring needed to happen to make sure my body was responding appropriately. If it didn’t, that cycle could be a waste (and yes, that happened once).

All of this meant starting another school year without being pregnant and with added stress on my plate. I wanted the summer to be my saving grace so I wouldn’t have to worry about so many appointments, medications, and so on while I was working. However, my plan isn’t always the plan. We continued to move forward, and I tried to start fresh that school year.

I told myself it was a new class, a new year, and it was going to be good. It was a great class full of kids with such wonderful personalities. I think I was scarred, though, from the previous year. I had to learn to let go and be the happy, loving teacher I used to be. I told myself I had to try my hardest to go easy on myself. I think I did, but it took time.

That September I had my second IUI, then began the process of IVF in October. It all began with the retrieval. All I do is cringe when I think back to these times. The shipments that would come in from the specialized pharmacy would begin my worry and trigger the fear. There was just so much stuff. So many syringes, needles, bottles of medication, boxes of other types of medication, gauze pads, bandaids, alcohol swabs, and directions. It was very overwhelming.

One thing I did appreciate was that the pharmacy (Schrafts 2.0, highly recommended) always had a sticker on the inside of the boxes with a number and a

phrase that said something like, “Feeling overwhelmed? It’s okay, give us a call.” It just made me think that I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. These shipments for the IVF process definitely had the most medications compared to the previous procedures we did. It was nerve-racking.

There were several steps. To sum them up, I had to take medications to get my body ready for the retrieval procedure. After the retrieval, I had to wait about a month or so. Specifically, I needed to wait until another cycle came and went — I had to get my period again. Once that happened, I took more medications to get my body ready for a transfer.

For both the retrieval and transfer, I had to take a couple days off of work each time — another stressor for me. I hated taking time off, period. As a teacher, it’s not easy calling in sick or taking a day off. It’s more work to be out than to be there. I also didn’t like being away from the kids and having their routines thrown off. It’s always different with a substitute teacher, even when you have awesome ones. I had to type up my plans and get all of the materials together for 1–2 days each time. I also had to coordinate with my coworkers to assist while I was out.

Additionally, my son was attending Pre-K at my school at the time, which made it difficult when I had procedures. I needed him to go to school so that I could rest at home on these days and not have to get up and down to take care of him. Of course, my husband left an hour earlier than I did in the morning, so that was another arrangement.

Thank heaven for my good friend, Stacey. She saved me on so many occasions and Tyler adored her. She would pick him up in the morning, play with him before school started, and bring him home once school was over. I sincerely appreciated these favors, as she also had to get her own classroom ready before her students arrived.

There were so many people who helped me along the way. As the saying goes for parenthood, “It takes a village,” it also goes for teaching. I am so thankful to all of my coworkers and friends for everything they did for me. I will always appreciate their help during those times.

It was hard, though. I never knew the meaning of multitasking and juggling until this all fell into my lap. Those days came and went and at some point it began feeling like it wasn’t worth it.

We got the negative results after that transfer. I was absolutely numb. I went into a state of darkness. It was right around Thanksgiving and everyone was gearing up for the holidays, which just made it even harder for me. I was so disappointed in everything. But I continued to go in each day and do my job. I think by this time, I was coming around to the fact that the end was near and I had to brace myself for the possibility that this just wasn’t going to happen. I think I tried to adjust my lifestyle to having an only child and being content with what I had. Every time I would see Tyler at school, I would tear up inside. He got along so well with other kids; he was so social and just so happy. It ate away at me that I couldn’t give him a sibling.

I don’t know how, but I managed to only have to deal with taking a shot one time during school hours. Thank God it was only one time because, boy, was it stressful! Again, being a teacher you can’t just walk in and take your time grabbing a cup of coffee, and start your day off checking emails. The kids show up at 8:40 am and leave at 3:15 pm. Yes, I have a lunch break and one prep a day, but it’s all on a rigid schedule.

One part of my treatments required taking certain shots at exactly the same time every day, am and pm. The time, of course, was 8:40 am on the dot. Perfect! The same time my kids arrived! This was not a time that I got to choose, either. It was a specific direction from my nurse.

Again, I had to coordinate. At first, I thought I’d just do the shot in the staff bathroom. All I needed was a small place to put the bag down (I used my lunchbox to hold all the meds and tools I needed). Then, my brain decided to work and I contacted my nurse. I filled her in on what was going on the night before and she was so supportive. I had to arrange for someone to bring my son to his class and for someone to take care of my class for the first ten minutes of the day. It was a lot of thinking and planning just to get this one shot down; this one very important shot.

Not only was it a lot to physically get all those ducks in a row, but it was also mentally draining. It felt weird to be in the hallway during morning arrival because I normally had my students coming into my classroom. I never had hallway duty. In my mind, I was thinking, “People are looking at me, wondering what the heck I’m doing and why I’m going to the nurse’s office.”

Yes, that’s where my mind went, especially because it’s a small school and people talk. I was even more self-conscious about the things I did and how I looked during this time. All the meds made me put on extra pounds, which didn’t help the situation.

After making sure all arrangements for my students and my son were taken care of, then I had to do the task at hand: administer the injection. I walked into the nurse’s office, went to one of the rooms, and closed the door. I set up all of the materials I would need and then started my music playlist to calm my mind.

This was all before starting my work day. I still amaze myself.

Queue Britney Spears, “Work Bitch,” and I started my process: wash hands, prepare the syringe with medicine, make sure it’s the correct dosage, clean the site with an alcohol swab, squeeze a chunk of skin to stick the needle into, count down, and stick it!

That was the worst part. It usually took me a few rounds of counting down from three to actually do it. Once I did, I pushed the syringe so all the medication went in, then counted to 10 before taking out the needle. I had my sharps container there to dispose of the needle and voilà! I was done.

I took a moment to just breathe and, of course, I started to cry. I just couldn’t believe that I was still doing this. I couldn’t believe that I was sitting in my school nurse’s office giving myself a freakin’ shot because I still wasn’t pregnant. I couldn’t believe any of it. I was sad for myself and also pissed off. In my head, I prayed that it would work out the way it was supposed to.

We had opened up to pretty much everyone we knew by the early fall of 2019. I had been informing family and friends about each step along the way, but I quickly regretted that. It became too much to deal with. We received so many questions and well-wishes. I knew everyone meant well and they wanted to be there for support; however, I felt that each time I said something, it was taking more energy out of me than it was reviving in me.

I think it felt this way because it wasn’t anything positive. I was running out of hope and I just couldn’t listen to one more person try to give me positive advice, especially because they had literally no idea what I physically and mentally had to do each day. I know it wasn’t their fault, but I also knew I didn’t want to do this anymore. My husband and I had talked it through and decided we weren’t going to share anything more about our journey until we wanted to either share happy news or the “end” of our journey.

That first transfer didn’t work. Our first embryo didn’t make it. We had lost our first possible baby. It was really difficult to wrap our heads around it. After that hard blow, I had really lost almost all hope in it. I really thought IVF would be the golden ticket and after that it was really hard to stay positive. I went back to my state of closing everything and everyone off. I just told people to not ask me any more questions. I would give them details if I was able to. I had to stop sharing and stop talking about it with others who didn’t know what it was like. It was just too emotional. I was back to tearing up or getting angry at the thought of it all.

It was so hard to continue to move forward, teach, and go about daily life. In the back of my mind I felt that it just wasn’t in the cards for us. The loss of our first embryo happened around Thanksgiving of 2019. Since it was the holiday season, it made everything a little bit harder than it already was. It was a time of celebration and cheer, but that was the opposite of what I was feeling. At school, the kids could only think of Christmas and Santa and excitement. I had to put on my happy face and do the whole shebang.

At this point I had two options: try all the embryos, or stop. I knew that if I didn’t transfer those embryos, I would regret it forever. This meant I had to do another transfer, and if that didn’t work, one more after that. This meant more rounds of injections and medications. This meant doing everything all over ... again.

I can’t tell you how frustrating this all was. I was thankful that I had an easier class that year. It made my brain feel a little lighter with the day-to-day workload for sure. This time going in, my second transfer would be over winter break; the day before Christmas Eve to be exact. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’ll make a difference — not having to worry about work and setting up plans for days and worrying about being out of school again.” I hoped and prayed it would make a difference ... and that Santa might bring me a little Christmas magic.

Therapy

“It was prayer and sometimes yelling at God that got me through the tough moments, but it was also having an understanding therapist of my own to process through this emotional trauma.” —Vicki

I know there are support groups out there. RMA offers several different webinars and meeting groups for every aspect of infertility. I’m sure they’re amazing and so helpful, but they just weren’t for me. I wasn’t ready to openly talk about infertility because I thought it would make me vulnerable. For me, it felt like going to these sessions would open the door to other comments and questions, and I thought I’d had my fair share of those.

You might be thinking, “Why did you write this, then?” I wrote this as more of a journal for myself, or at least that’s why I started. It’s kind of like therapy to jot down my thoughts. There aren’t many people I can or want to talk with about this. I talk to my therapist, yes, but not many others.

I realized about a year into trying to conceive that the process was tearing me up inside, affecting my life big time, and I knew I needed help. I reached out to my school counselor to see if she had any recommendations of therapists, without giving her too much information. She told me about a group close by and I ended up really connecting with the first therapist I tried. She was great. She just listened to everything I had to say in the beginning. Of course, the first two sessions I pretty much cried for a straight hour, but I guess I needed that. We discussed more than just my infertility. I shared my family history, my parents’ divorce, my relationship with my dad, my relationship with my mom, my brother, my sister and also the distance between me and my family. Apparently that was something that really dug at me too.

I live in central New Jersey. My entire family, who I’m very close with, lives in Connecticut. When I was younger, about 16 years old, my parents got divorced. It may sound like no big deal now because so many families have experienced this, but it was terrible then and it still is a difficult piece of my life now, over 20 years later. I was a mess then, a teenager about to get her license, close with my dad, my world being torn apart when all my hormones were already enough to handle at that time. My parents tried talking to me, asking me to go see a therapist. I refused, but somehow they took me anyway, even though I kicked and screamed about it.

I’m thankful I went. The beginning was rough. I remember sessions with my dad too; trying to express my feelings, but also not wanting to speak to him. Session after session, we went. We talked about God-knows-what. I don’t remember every conversation, but what I do remember is that it helped me. As stubborn as I was, it got me through a very difficult time. I should have continued going once I went to college and thereafter, but I didn’t. Therapy is good for anyone, even if you don’t have “serious” issues going on in your life.

I think there’s a really bad stigma that goes along with therapy and “talking to someone” and it’s unfortunate. I can say I used to be one of those people who thought negatively about it, but I’m here to tell you that it can actually save you. It can save you from yourself. It can save you from losing your mind. It can save you from going down a rabbit hole. It can save you from depression and anything else you may be suffering from. I believe in the power of therapy and I hope you give it a chance too. Therapy did save me and it still does.

One thing I learned, though, is that a therapist doesn’t just magically make all your problems go away. You need to work for it. It’s your life and you have to help make it what you want. A therapist can help guide you and give you advice, but they can’t do the actual work for you — that’s on you. It was hard in the beginning, and it’s still a process.

Fast forward to being in therapy while dealing with infertility. I was in a bad place. With the combination of having a busy toddler, working full time, being a wife, taking care of a house, and wrapping my head around secondary infertility; it took a huge toll on me. I never wanted to admit or face the reality of what I actually had on my plate. I never wanted to say that I had a lot going on or that I couldn’t handle it all. Typing that out and reading it makes me realize that it’s a lot for anyone. I remember my therapist telling me to give myself some credit; that it was okay to feel that way and have those emotions and outbursts. Just hearing someone who wasn’t related to me or a friend of mine say that made me feel a world of a difference.

Even after becoming pregnant with my second child, I still go because life is hard no matter how you slice it. Therapy is like my hour of tension release, to let out whatever is on my mind. It makes me feel better. That’s the bottom line. I talk about my worries, my fears, my son, my husband, my job, the future, my family — you name it.

My point in all of this is that if you are at a point in your life where you are bottling it all up inside, I get it. I understand. It’s not easy to open your life up to some stranger to be judged. But therapy isn’t like that. I just want to tell you that what you’re feeling is okay and that in your own time, when you’re ready, I hope you get the chance to talk to someone; whether it’s a therapist, an infertility group, a journal — anyone who or anything that makes you feel better about yourself. This shit is hard and I know now: it’s not meant to be lived through alone.

Faith and Hope

“I found my faith. I can't remember a time in which I prayed so much and cried to God just asking him to help me through.” —Vicki

You may be thinking, “What the hell do faith and hope have to do with it?” or maybe you’re thinking, “Fuck faith. It hasn’t helped me this far!” I feel ya sister. I’ve been there, lived by that for quite some time. I didn’t want to believe that there was something more than me, my husband, and science to help make my baby. You may not believe in God, and if not, totally skip ahead — I understand. For those who do believe in God, or who are maybe just curious, my faith has been a part of the process too, and I want to share that part with you.

For a long, long time I was full-blown furious with God. I couldn’t understand why he was letting this happen to me. Why was he allowing me to endure so much pain, when all I wanted was happiness? I shut down my faith, I closed Him out for months and months on end. I didn’t want to believe that there was another plan other than mine. I remember every month of failure, I would recalculate my maternity leave for if I got pregnant the next month and how it would affect my teaching schedule. I couldn’t help myself. I’m a planner, a type-A personality, and I like to have everything in order. Each month when I would get a negative test back, my plans would be messed up again, so I continued to be angry, frustrated, and sad for a long period of time.

You think you have your whole life planned out, and then something smacks you straight in the face and wakes you up to reality. You know what I mean, especially if you’re going through infertility. There’s no guarantee for anything in life. I’ve realized that the hard way with all of this, unfortunately. On the flip side, I’ve also found comfort in knowing that God has a plan whether I like it or not. What helped me feel better was

knowing that I’ve done and continue to do everything in my power and the rest is up to Him. That was what brought me down from my anger; what made me breathe with a sigh of relief. I had to put my faith in Him and trust that He would fulfill whatever I was meant to do and be.

That wasn’t always the case. It took me a long, long time to get to this point; several months of anger, depression, sadness — all the emotional highs and lows. There were so many times I cursed him out, screamed “What the fuck!”, and didn’t believe in Him since I was going through so much hell. How could He let this keep happening to me after watching me, my husband and my family go through so much pain? I just couldn’t believe I was supposed to endure this.

There was a moment in August of 2019, when I had a big revelation of letting go. There came a time that I (sort of) let go of my anger and just left it up to “fate.” I was driving by myself up to Connecticut, going to a family event, and in the middle of my ride as I was lost in thought and my music, I just had this wave of relief come over me. It literally felt like chills all over my body. I can’t even remember what song was playing, but it must have been a good one. I remember thinking to myself, “Just let it all go.” You can call me crazy, but it was as if someone was telling me to stop worrying, stop stressing, and leave it up to God. It was the strangest thing, but also the most exhilarating feeling.

I think it relates to a quote I came across on my journey: “Most people are about as happy as they choose to be.” It made me think about how angry I had been and how much that had weighed on me. I slowly started to let go of the resentment and madness I had bottled up inside me. Some days, I choose to live by that, and other days, I’m just human! We all have our moments, our days, our time periods in life where we struggle. However, it’s when we pick ourselves back up from the bottom of those pits that we can create something more beautiful than we could ever imagine.

The only thing? You have to work for it. You have to give yourself time. You have to give yourself some freakin’ slack. You have to breathe. And maybe, just maybe, you have to believe.

You don’t have to believe in God. You can believe in whatever it is you want to believe in. I don’t go to church every week, or every month for that matter. (Don’t tell my grandmother.) However, even though I may not be a perfect, practicing Catholic, that doesn’t mean I don’t have faith; that I don’t pray or that I don’t believe. If this journey has taught me one thing, it has taught me that God works in mysterious ways. We don’t get to plan out every detail of our life, unfortunately. We may be able to work hard and try our best to achieve something, but He might have a different plan for us.

The worry started when we were still trying to get pregnant after 6 months. I knew deep down inside that something wasn’t right. From then on, I just kept worrying. Did that play a factor in everything? Maybe, maybe not. I can’t help the worry. It’s the way I am. I think it’s because I care too much. Or maybe I’m just neurotic! I get it from my Nonna (Italian for grandma) who worries about everything and then backs it up with prayers. So, that’s what I would do: worry and then pray. It was all I could do. I felt as if we were doing everything in our power to help create a healthy baby, but month after month it just wasn’t working.

It was hard. Hard trying to believe that there was a plan for us that would be our future. I couldn’t let go of the fact that the plan that I wanted may not be the plan that God had for me. It took me many, many months to get to the point where I trusted God and knew that whatever was meant to be was meant to be. That song, “If It’s Meant to Be” by Florida Georgia Line and Bebe Rexa, was a painful one to listen to by the way! When that song came on the radio, all I could think was, “What if it’s not meant to be?” What if Tyler would be my only child? I wasn’t ready to accept that. I wanted more — more for him, more for me, more for our family.

Then there’s hope. Hope. That was a son of a bitch. Let me explain. Hope gives you this positive, uplifting feeling. It makes you feel like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and, believe me, I wanted to believe in that. I had hope almost every month for maybe the first year and a half of our journey. I believe I’m a positive person and I tried to stay on the bright side each time around, but it got old and hard after a while. My husband probably carried the majority of our hope as things dragged on. It was draining, month after month after month, to try to have that optimism and belief that it could be the one time it worked.

When I think back about this, I think of a boxer constantly getting hit over and over again, just trying to make it. You want to be that underdog who rises up, but you just don’t know if you have it in you to throw that knockout punch when you’ve been beaten down over and over again.

Another thing that drained my hope and faith throughout this was the empty room in the house that we had waiting. Every single day, I’d walk by our empty “guest room,” which wasn’t really that anymore. It was the room — the one that would be the next baby’s room — but we wouldn’t say it aloud very much. My husband and I discussed years ago that it would be our second child’s room and we had arranged the other bedrooms so that it worked out that way. We were lucky to have four bedrooms: the master bedroom, my son’s bedroom, a larger room that we made the guest room/craft room and then there was the empty room. The empty room that didn’t have a bed or anything for guests; it was just there. We had put the rocking chair in there that I no longer needed for my son and put other baby items in the closet for storage. The room was there as a reminder, basically. A reminder that we didn’t have another baby; that we weren’t pregnant. A reminder of the emptiness inside of me; inside of us. A reminder that this still wasn’t working as we planned.

The other room, the larger “guest room,” was my favorite spot during those days. It’s where I would go to write and it’s also my craft room. The space was like my

own little sanctuary where I went just to get away. It’s upstairs, away from the noise. It overlooks our backyard, which has a rock wall and a big hill with trees and bushes. The area brings so many birds, butterflies and wildlife. It’s probably my favorite thing to do; to just sit and stare at.

In 2018, my husband and I planted a ton of wildflowers to beautify the hill. Once those finally started appearing in the late summer, I could just stare at all of it for hours. It brought so many more butterflies and birds; especially hummingbirds. I love flowers and I love wildlife. I mean, I’m no outdoorsy kind of girl, but I can thoroughly enjoy nature — from a distance. Staring out at the hill and watching all this happen with my window open, feeling the fresh breeze; it would make me feel more at peace. I stare at this same hill now and it’s still my favorite spot. I feel like it lets me pause time for a little bit. It’s private, I don’t see any cars driving by, I don’t see any people, and I just sit in the moment. I can just think.

Looking out into this backyard of mine, now, after being pregnant for the second time and writing this book, reminds me of all the times I got those phone calls with bad news from the nurse or my doctor. I would come to my craft room, play my music, close the door, and cry. I’d stare out at the hill and run the millions of questions through my head. I’d write, paint, craft; I’d do whatever it was to get me through it. As I said, it took days to get out of those funks. But being in that space just helped me work through those moments. The view of the hill brought peace to me no matter when I needed it. It reminds me now of all the struggles I went through and I’ll never forget them.

I believe in signs from above. It’s probably due to how I was raised. I do believe in God; that there are guardian angels and higher powers out there. And even though I don’t go to church every Sunday, I do believe in prayer. Of course, I had my doubts along the way; whether my prayers were even being heard. After exploring more on social media and learning more about infertility, I’ve read so many things that speak to

me that I wish I had read earlier when I was in the thick of it. It could have made me feel better, or at least made me feel less alone. I’m so happy to have found such a large community of women out there.

It makes me feel better even now, after getting pregnant, to know that these women are not going through it alone. I saw a video recently of a husband giving his wife her trigger shot right in the belly. As much as I twinged and I flashed back to my moments of pain, I felt comforted in a weird way. Life can surprise you in ways you never thought possible when you open up your mind and accept who you are and what you have. It may be really difficult to hear that and actually believe it at times, but it’s true.