I learned the hard way why there’s a backdoor at the OB-GYN office. Without meeting the eyes of the staff or expectant mothers in the waiting room, I slipped out into the parking lot almost two years ago, a different person than when I walked in.
Jordan landed a teaching position across the country leaving us a month to pack up our lives and handle the logistics. I arrived at the last appointment on the list of errands already fragile. After tracking my ovulation and experiencing one disappointing negative pregnancy test after another, the OB—let’s refer to her as Dr. T, ordered an ultrasound. I assumed she’d offer a vitamin regimen or different tracking methods to best prepare us for pregnancy. Instead she launched into a list of structural issues that appeared on my scans. Things that never crossed my worried mind: a stage 4 endometriosis diagnosis with a collection of cysts, polyps, a titled uterus and abnormal shaped abdomen that were in her words, “a mess.” If my ailments were on a bingo card, I’d be the winner. According to her, we would never be able to conceive naturally.
I’m unsure what was more painful—Dr. T’s lack of empathy and bedside manner or the cold certainty in her delivery. My future seemed carved in stone.
Up until that point, I always felt in tune with my body. I didn’t experience any noticeable symptoms indicating something was wrong. My periods have been mild since middle school. For a long time I beat myself up over not finding out sooner.
Jordan, my constant rock sat beside me handling the note-taking; asking the thoughtful questions. I was too frozen to function. It was like a pivotal scene in a movie where the doctor delivers grim news and their voice grows distant until it fades into a high pitched ringing.
Dr. T didn’t offer any resources or encouraging statistics. No referrals or education on alternative options to start a family. Just repeated glances at her watch paired with impatient pen clicks. It was just before five on a sunny Friday in coastal California. I imagine she had weekend plans on her mind. The thought of looking forward to anything in that moment felt like something I’d have to work extra hard at.
We sat in the car until the parking lot emptied, the rim of my shirt tearstained. Jordan made his best efforts to comfort me—he promised second and third opinions with kinder, more supportive doctors. We’d leave when I was ready. Go wherever I want to go.
The stacked boxes lining our living room were another cruel reminder of the uncertainty stretched in front of us. For once, home didn’t feel like a refuge. A drive along the beach proved the water couldn’t provide solace, either. Families were everywhere—parents pushing strollers on the sidewalk, kids wrapped in towels, laughing. I took it as a personal attack. I was guilt-ridden that a strangers’ joy could take away from my own.
My world had stopped but everyone else’s kept on turning. I envied the náive version of myself from the day before.
By age 20, Jordan and I already picked our future baby names. It wasn’t that we were in any rush, but starting a family was always part of the plan. The compromise was to dedicate our 20s to adventure—move around, live slightly off the grid, see the country from the view of a tent often, and honeymoon in Scotland. Thirty came quickly. During the pandemic, we started actively trying. When it didn’t happen, we worried we waited too long.
Being on the fence about when to have kids can feel indefinite. You tell yourself you have all the time in the world, you’ll figure it out eventually. All of a sudden people start replacing a care-free “enjoy being young!” with a concerned “are you ever going to have kids?” When the option was taken from us, the doubts and fears we once carried became a luxury we were no longer afforded.
The move offered a fresh start. I focused my energy on making a home in Georgia. Meeting new people and exploring my town were a welcomed distraction for a while, but eventually, I knew I had to revisit the grief and focus on fertility again.
Finding a compassionate healthcare team after having been failed by one became my mission. I connected with a caring OB, a woman with a contagious smile who offered hope. With each appointment and blood test, she’d remind me “we’re just gathering more information, it’ll inform us of the next step. We won’t get ahead of ourselves.” It was the grounding force I needed whenever my thoughts spiraled. She referred me to a warm reproductive specialist, who then connected me with a skilled surgeon in the city. The team of women made me feel supported and seen, never broken.
My surgeon expertly performed my laparoscopy to remove the cysts and polyps clearing up my uterus using robotic technology. A scientific feat I didn’t know existed until I was a patient on the other side of it. Everyone was communicative and reassuring throughout the process. Regardless of whether it resulted in pregnancy, I was comforted knowing it’d help prevent health issues down the road.
I was given a prescription for Letrozole to help encourage the egg implantation process The label instructed on taking it on a very specific schedule. One of the many daunting side effects was an increased chance of multiples. The chance was even higher that it wouldn’t work at all. I wasn’t sure which sounded scarier.
It took a lot of time and inner reflection to find peace with the idea that a baby might not be in the cards for us. Our life together with the dogs is precious. It was more than enough. Stress wasn’t helping me or our chances of conceiving. I paused the ovulation testing and peeing on sticks. We gave ourselves permission to release the pressure.
The orange pill bottle sat untouched in our medicine cabinet. My mom’s periodic check-ins if I’d started taking it were brushed off with excuses— “maybe after my upcoming vacation or work trip.” My busy Fall travel schedule was a convenient truth. I hoped she’d eventually forget to ask.
My surgery was last June. It took two months to recover internally. We got pregnant in September. To our surprise, we didn’t need medicine or IVF, after all. I’m tempted to send Dr. T a Christmas card to share the news.
For so long I was convinced my body was a hostile environment. The trauma from my initial OB visit made almost my entire first trimester colored in disbelief. In the early days, I second guessed everything. Instead of celebrating mild symptoms, I was concerned the results from the seven positive tests could have been a fluke. My new doctors could call me at any point to tell me how sorry they are for the mix-up. It wasn’t so far-fetched. The first 12 weeks can be a precarious time. I was subconsciously holding my breath until I first heard the heartbeat. Nothing has sounded sweeter before or since.
As my belly grows, my anxiety gets quieter and I trust my body is doing what it needs to do to grow a life. I’m one of those people who are genuinely enjoying this stage of pregnancy (annoying, I know). Our connection with little Bean gets stronger every day. We talk and read to them so they recognize our voice. Play them our favorite Beatles songs. Their big movements lately hint at a rambunctious personality.
As I’m in my third trimester, boxes are ironically scattered around the house from yet another unexpected move. The owner is planning to put up the house for sale before my due date— a story for another time. Our new home symbolizes a new chapter. Another fresh start I didn’t know I needed.
A part of me held back from sharing this part of my story to spare others the sympathy, similar to the day I walked out of the back door of the OB office. It’s been such a personal struggle and once I learned I was pregnant, I worried it would take away from the happy news. I hoped the joy could erase the pain during those darker times but healing from years-long grief doesn’t work that way.
Part of the problem with infertility is the quiet suffering and isolation people often face. Someone casually asking if you want kids can unravel a perfectly nice day, spotting an adorable family at a park can sting without warning. The monthly disappointment of the first day of my period would set back all the progress I made just when I thought I was feeling okay, again.
Behind a person’s smile could be a longing that no one truly knows about. Sometimes keeping the grief in feels like a survival tactic. Other days, like sitting in a dark empty waiting room.
Stories like mine are unfortunately not unique. The heartache exists in whispers. I believe sharing our experiences can provide an outstretched hand to someone else in their season of waiting.
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