IVF, Interrupted (Marzec-Young)

This post discusses miscarriage and infertility, which may disturb some readers. Please read at your own risk.

The needle slid smoothly into my belly, and I pushed the plunger. Five units of Lupron under my skin, then I pulled out the syringe and placed it gently in the waste container. The first time I’d injected myself, I felt almost nothing. After a week of shots, each needle felt like a bee sting. My breasts felt sore and swollen.

After I miscarried in January of 2019, and after half a year of trying with nothing to show for it, my husband and I started seeing a fertility specialist. But  roadblock after roadblock popped up in our way. From my thyroid issues to my husband’s work travel, trying to make a baby the old-fashioned way felt as if it were cursed. In January 2020 we decided to try IVF, using eggs that I’d frozen six years before.

In early March, it finally was go time. I felt the excitement and solemnity as I slid the first needle into my belly. Lupron shots, to suppress the growth of egg cells. Then I added estradiol pills, to encourage my uterus to become plump and pillowy, tempting an embryo to cuddle in and rest.

Then the world shook and slid every so slightly off-center. The university that I work for cancelled classes on March 10th, effective on March 12th. That’s when the pandemic, which was something on the other side of the world and nothing to worry about, suddenly became real. The anxiety mounted as I injected myself daily with the fertility drug and tried to chase down the nurse for some answers. When I heard back, the answer was that the clinic wasn’t cancelling cycles already in progress—but it wasn’t starting any new cycles.

Friday the 13th was an unlucky day. The morning monitoring session showed that the Lupron hadn’t done its job. Instead of my uterus growing a soft cushion, perfect for an embryo, I’d grown four follicles of fresh eggs. I found myself injecting another shot that night, but this time Ovidrel (or, human chorionic gonadotropin, the pregnancy hormone)—to force the eggs to ripen and my ovaries to pop and release them.

I didn’t feel bad about my failed cycle at first. Instead, I was concerned with survival, and the shortages of basic groceries. Now, two unmonitored and unassisted cycles into the pandemic, I feel my hope eroding from under me, like the ocean pulling the sand out from under my feet at the edge of the water. I am 41. I have 7 frozen eggs. My infertility benefits stop at age 46. The effects of the coronavirus on pregnant women and their fetuses are unknown. The box of mostly unused fertility medications in my bedroom taunts me, with vanishing dreams and hopes deferred.

I was okay with the failed cycle. Really. I’m fine. I can’t imagine having a kid now, with day cares closed and classrooms online. But why then does my voice catch when I say it failed? And why do my tears still well up when I remember my first, vanished child? 

 

Rebecca Marzec-Young is a Senior Lab Technician at the Rutgers University Cell and DNA Repository, the largest university-based repository in the world. She holds an MS in Marine and Atmospheric Sciences. She is also a Distinguished Toastmaster and has been previously published in the Heart of a Toastmaster anthology.