From the moment I decided to try to become pregnant at 42, I was psyched. I thought for sure we would have to go to IVF, and for me that meant I could achieve my lifelong dream of having twins. Yippee I said. Where do I sign and how do we get going?
I wasn’t completely naïve, I knew IVF was going to be challenging. I read the websites and chatrooms exhaustively.I pored over statistics, and medical research pointing to anything that could increase chances for success. “The stress of IVF is equivalent to dealing with terminal disease.” Yeah, right, I said. How could it be that bad? Everyone I knew that had done IVF had a story to tell, and a drama they had been through. They still had their health, their love, their house, their job. What was the big deal? However, I prepared myself for a journey of failures and the drama nonetheless.
Then the medicine arrived. I laid it all out on the kitchen table, needles and vials and pills - and it filled the table. There were approximately a hundred doses of something or another. All hormones that had no business being in my body, and of which the long-term effects were not known. And I was going to do this to my body. Willingly. What was I thinking? I quickly decided not to think and proceeded with the task at hand.
We became pregnant the first time and were overjoyed- for about 2 weeks – until my symptoms subsided and I was informed the embryo had stopped growing. Then followed a horrible series of events – miscarriage, surgery, and more hormones to get things back in order so we could try again. The thing about IVF is that no matter how prepared you are, it always finds a way to knock you sideways. Everyone goes through this. Everyone feels they are prepared for the worst, and once they start to relax – pow, bang, bam they are beaten into submission by some unforeseen turn of events they never heard of from their friends and research.
What happened to me was understandable yet so awful. I sank into the deepest, darkest valley. Maybe it was the hormones, maybe it was the miscarriage, and maybe it was the huge effort this whole process required. During my blue period, I unfortunately did not create great art. Instead I would make daily pilgrimages to Stinson beach, where I would walk and cry to the ocean and somehow leave feeling cleansed, warmer, and ready to face another day and the challenges ahead.
One day as I wiped away my tears and watched the sun dance off those stunning waves, I saw a woman down the beach with two little boys. They were running around and playing and every so often running to her for a hug and I thoughtto myself - “I want that” and I wanted it with every cell in my body, even though I didn’t completely know what “that” was. And here I am, 2 years later, with my fabulous boys at the beach and I catch my breath as a huge wave of happiness washes over me and I am filled with gratitude and more love than I ever thought was possible, and the realization that I am “Livin the Dream”.
