What to expect when you're not expecting

Around this time 3 years ago, Nick and I got pregnant for the first time. We’d been trying for a few years, and our first positive was thanks to thousands and thousands of dollars of fertility hormone injections and treatments. I can remember being in such a state of shock that I just sat in the bathroom and peed on boxes worth of pregnancy tests, just to make sure. The next morning I went to the fertility clinic to confirm everything, and we were so happy that things were looking good and on track. Every few days I went back to the clinic for hormone blood-work, and finally in May we decided to tell my parents over a fancy brunch.

My phone rang at the restaurant, and it was the fertility clinic. I decided to answer and to use it as the vehicle for telling my parents. With smug joviality I said “yes, this is Alexandra” to the nurse on the phone. “We’re sorry, Alexandra, but your hormone levels from this morning have dropped, and you no longer are pregnant.” I didn’t say anything to her, I just hung up and looked at Nick. Through a chain reaction, everyone silently understood. Nick grabbed my hand and we both started to cry. Through some silent wave of mother’s intuition, my mom understood exactly what was happening. My dad was still eating breakfast so he didn’t notice at first, but a sharp kick under the table from my mom had him look up and clue in. I had a book with me in my purse (it was a picture book for grandparents that we’d intended on giving my parents) and as we walked out of the restaurant, I remember it feeling so stupid and heavy by my side.

Nick and I walked to our car in the pouring rain, only to discover that we’d locked ours key inside. Even now, I have no idea how it happened - we have proximity keys that don’t allow that, but it seemed like this was a perfect storm of things not working properly. We walked home through sheets of thick rain, feeling numb inside and out. I don’t remember passing anyone on the streets, and the emptiness felt apropos to the situation. We waited in our hallway for security to use the skeleton key to get us inside, and then Nick grabbed our spare car key to get the car. I remember sitting by the window and watching him walk out of sight. The sky was grey, our condo was cold, and it suddenly felt like the rain was never going to stop. Cliche, I know, but it felt overwhelming and inescapable, and I just wanted to see the sun.

I’ve talked to people about this before, and a common response is that I shouldn’t have raised my hopes up so quickly. Statistically, the likelihood of a miscarriage in the first trimester is very high. Objectively I know that, but all I can say is that you don’t know what it feels like to try for years and to have nothing happen. Even now, 5 years and god knows how many thousands of dollars since we first started trying, I get my hopes up on a monthly basis. Every late period, every weird symptom, every time I decide to take a test because it just feels right… it’s a living form of torture. The tests are the worst because my mind runs rampant as I wait for them to develop. “Oh, the den, I can move my computer desk against the wall, and we can use it as a changing station…” “Hmm, we’ll need to keep the cats away from the baby’s room, so maybe we’ll put up a temporary wall…” “I wonder if putting cream on my stomach will prevent stretch marks…” The thoughts continue like this, going faster and faster until I look down at the result, and all I can hear is the echo of the room.

The other thing people tell me is “oh, you can always adopt!” They say it cheerily, and I always want to respond with “oh my god, you mean I can just take someone else’s baby?? That’s so much easier than all of this! I had no idea I could do that!” The truth is that we can’t apply for adoption until we’re done all fertility treatments. They don’t want people applying and then suddenly removing themselves from the list, and they definitely don’t want anyone in a form of distress or impulse jumping to adoption. It’s a serious process that we’ll likely start in the fall if my summer treatments don’t work.

In the beginning I chose not to talk to people about this, but like all things in life, it’s easier when you can connect and not feel so alone. The more I talk, the more I hear about others having similar experiences. I’ve learned of friends who felt like they had to endure their miscarriages alone, a marriage that ended because of infertility, friends who I wrongly assumed chose not to have children. All of this has a cost - emotional, financial, physical - and I just wanted to put this out there publicly to support anyone else who’s in this with me. It definitely sucks, but it will all be worth it one day when I meet my little ones - biologically mine or otherwise.