“You have a recruitment problem,” Dr. Matthew Retzloff told me. I shifted on the paper-covered exam table, the vinyl cold against the backs of my knees, and laughed. As an ROTC graduate, a former U.S. Army Reserve Lieutenant, physician, and U.S. Air Force Major with nine years of service, recruitment had never been my issue. The infertility specialist told mes that I wasn’t developing enough mature egg follicles with each menstrual cycle to fertilize. Having a biological child would be an uphill battle ― and maybe more of a war. This . Instead, I’m the poster child of failed fertility. I was reminded of this after reading another article about infertility that ended in a successful pregnancy and birth. I know these stories have a purpose: They destigmatize infertility and give women hope for pregnancy. But that outcome is not always the case.
I was 37 risk factors: I was a “normal” weight, exercised regularly but not excessively, didn’t use tobacco or drugs, didn’t drink excessively, and didn’t have any preexisting disorders or infectious diseases. I did have heavy, long, irregular, painful periods (metromenorrhagia) beginning at age 12, but other women in my family also had heavy bleeding and had conceived. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention defines infertility as the inability to get pregnant after one year or more of unprotected sex. In the U.S., 10% to 15% of or carrying a pregnancy to term. And about one-third of women over 35 have fertility issues. That’s about 6 million women in any .when I sought fertility treatment. My husband and I had been trying to conceive for two years. I had been on birth control for about 18 years but had stopped using it when we started planning a family. Besides age, I had no
I was initially undaunted about my age. Friends and colleagues all around me seemed to be delaying starting families and still getting pregnant without difficulty. If they can do that, indeed I can, too, Ionto the battlefield of conception. Our next point of combat: We discovered that my husband, Jim, had an infertility issue. I breathed a private sigh of relief that it wasn’t just me. According to the CDC, 35% of infertility couples have a coexisting male reproductive issue. Jim had developed a varicocele, an enlargement of the testicular veins, which “overheated” the sperm and reduced its count. He was quickly booked for outpatient surgery. Afterward, he spent several days with an ice pack on his groin, but he had an average sperm count. Our shared problem was now mine alone.
We tried a variety of procedures and therapies to fix my fertility issues. First, the doctors removed a small polyp in my uterus. Next, my husband injected me daily with hormones to stimulate follicle production. I squeezed my eyes tightly to steel against the pain as Dr. Retzloff inseminated my uterus directly with a concentrate of Jim’s sperm using a long pipette. Month after month, nothing worked. My egg “recruitment” numbers stagnated. Month after month, I went home hopeful, only to find out four weeks later that the latest treatment hadn’t changed anything.
My fertility specialist was honest. “Your chances of getting pregnant are between 3% and 5%,” he told me. He also said I would hear many stories of people who gave up trying and almost magically got pregnant. But this was not the reality for most patients. I most likely had premature ovarian insufficiency, meaning my eggs had gone AWOL without any reasonable explanation beyond my age.
My specialist suggested we try in vitro fertilization. IVF success rates vary with age, but the statistics are less than comforting and often complicated: The rates for the first attempted fertilizations are 43% for women under 35 years old, 31% for those 35 to 37, 20% for those 38 to 40, 10% for women 41 to 42, and less than 3% after that. To further muddy the picture, 23% to 60% of couples exit after the initial treatment, often because of the expense and frustration. “This makes it hard to define failed treatment and prevalence,” Dr. Retzloff told me.
IVF with my eggs had a poor chance of success, so my doctor suggested we fertilize a donor egg with my husband’s sperm or inseminate a surrogate. I looked at my husband. I did not want to have a biologically his child and not mine, but many men are passionate about having their genetic offspring. “If the baby cannot be both of ours, I am uninterested,” Jim said. I could have wept with relief.
Meanwhile, all around me, everyone seemed to be getting pregnant. I ran into happy pregnant women almost daily — in line at the , church, office, and neighborhood. I was angry. I was jealous and sad. Some women hadn’t even tried; their pregnancies were “accidents.” Others were on their third and fourth pregnancies (enough already!). Still, others had miscarriages or early infertility but could conceive after all. I even met women who had initiated the adoption process only to find themselves pregnant.
I congratulated the mothers-to-be. I bought baby shower gifts and smiled dutifully while they cut the cake andpresents decorated with bright bows and wrapping paper dotted with rubber duckies. Each time, I secretly died inside a little. Well-meaning women tried to console me. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to go through morning sickness, stretch marks, and childbirth,” they said. Lucky? I would have given anything to experience the pain and inconvenience if it meant having my child. But I didn’t have a choice. This is entirely different from having the ability to get pregnant and opting not to — like my sister, Robin, who is four years my junior and had decided she didn’t want to have children.
I was getting older and was running out of options. I was 40 and wanted to be a mother. During a visit, Robin offered to donate her eggs to our cause. I briefly considered it — it could be our ticket to having a child who contained both my and my husband’s DNA. But she was going through a difficult divorce, and I didn’t want to add the discomfort of egg harvesting to her list of stressors. What if, given her age, her eggs weren’t viable? And what if she someday came to regret, or even resent, her decision? Meanwhile, my periods were like black-hatted drill sergeants from basic training. Each month would bring a new round of bleeding, which, while uncomfortable, seemed like a positive sign. ButI didn’t get pregnant made my internal “top hat” yell, “You worthless maggot! You call yourself a WOMAN?” I felt incomplete. Defective. I was discharged from duty.
The luck we lacked in getting pregnant seemed to transfer to the adoption process. Coincidence? We found an agency we felt comfortable with and began our application. Many children were available for adoption that year, and we were quickly matched with a child. The whole process took nine months. I became a forever parent to a beautiful 5-week-old baby girl. Except for witnessing the birth and the umbilical cord falling off, we got to experience all of the joys and fatigue of new parenthood. Like intelligence officers, my husband and I learned to decipher our baby’s unspoken language: She preferred to be cradled in our laps while. She giggled when her father blew “raspberries” on her belly. She absorbed everything around her with wide-eyed wonder. She howled if her bottle of formula was not in her mouth within a minute of walking. And she wanted her baths very warm — not the tepid, checked-on-the-inside-of-the-wrists temperatures that parenting guides suggest.
I was promoted to the rank of proud mama. Four years after our adoption, I started to bleed again. I bled and bled for over a month without stopping. Because I was 44, my new gynecologist wanted to perform a dilation and curettage, or D&C — a scraping of the uterine lining to stop the bleeding and rule out any cancerous changes. As part of the preoperative workup, she . “Your HCG is positive,” the gynecologist told me over the phone.” Do you want to keep the pregnancy?” Of course I did! My draft number was finally called. The doctor asked me to return for an ultrasound the following week. I was still giddy and dreamy when I told my husband the news.
A week later, at 0900 hours, I reported for the ultrasound. It showed a tiny embryo but no yolk sac. The was also slower than expected — more like an average adult’s. The gynecologist was quiet. “While we may have detected the pregnancy so early that the yolk sac hasn’t begun to form yet, it’s more likely the pregnancy is abnormal,” she said and quickly looked away. She . I , agonizing over the situation. Maybe we were just too early, I told myself. But I had none of the typical pregnancy symptoms: no nausea, breast tenderness, or cravings. Nothing. I had somehow determined this embryo was a girl. My mind was turned over by a snippet of a song from the Presidents of the United States of America: “She’s a lump, she’s lump / She’s in my head.” It was a strange, maybe even perverse, thing to think then. But I think it helped me make the impending . Perhaps I wouldn’t get so attached to this little ball of cells.
The that numerous cystic-like growths were taking over the embryo. There was still no yolk sac. The heartbeat was undetectable. The gynecologist asked if I was OK, and I cried, maybe more out of relief from the agony of uncertainty than from the loss itself. I had pregnant and would not go home. As devastating as it is to miscarry, the experience whole. At least partly, I had been given back one of the mothering . The pregnancy hadn’t been viable, but I’d at least been capable of getting pregnant. And at home, waiting for me, were my this child I had loved instantly. Now 14, she is beautiful, bright, funny, talented, willful, and frustrating. She even resembles me in mannerisms and type-A tendencies. I would die for her, even when she’s at her teenage snarkiest. I may not have birthed her, but she is as much my daughter as any biological child could be. And, no, she is not lucky to have us as parents; we are fortunate to have adopted her. We are family.
Over the years, the nagging shouts of “unfit” and “unwhole” from my subconscious drill sergeant got softer and softer each time my daughter squeezed me and gushed,d “I love you!” The sadness, bitterness, and longing faded. I have celebrated many triumphant pregnancies of friends and shared their grief and devastation when they’ve miscarried. When I see a belly is swollen and bursting with life, I am genuinely happy for her. Much like the decorations and ribbons on my USAF uniform that of my training and experience, my many roles, including mother, say to the level of me. I may be infertile, but I am still a woman — a professional, a sister, a friend, a wife, and, finally, a mother. Mission accomplished. There are dozens of meaningful ways to end an infertility story, with or without children.
Special thanks to my sister, Robin Catalano, an exceptional writer and editor who encouraged me to continue healing and help others like me. Jill Feig is a retired physician and a graphic designer. She is also a former U.S. Air Force Major. She lives in Helotes, Texas, with her husband, daughter, two dogs, and two cats. Do you have a compelling you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here, and send us a pitch!
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