In for the Long Haul

Our first year of marriage was great. We bonded. We traveled. I knew that not everyone becomes parents within the first year of marriage. Several of my own siblings had taken a year or two to become parents, so I settled in (im)patiently for a similar “wait.”

When I noticed some hormonal changes, I realized something must be slightly off, but I didn’t think it would be serious. I opted for a routine doctor’s exam, including bloodwork. Every woman does this once in a while, right?

“We recommend you consult a specialist,” was all the doctor was willing to say when the results came back. My stomach lurched. As much as I’d hoped this strange situation would resolve itself quickly by “popping some pills,” I knew deep down that this was going to be a long haul.

The diagnosis came in. PCOS.

I didn’t talk about it with anyone. I was ashamed — it felt almost like it was my own fault that my body wasn’t working the way it was “supposed to.” Then the fear kicked in. Did this mean I’d never have a family? Never be “normal”?

I started on hormonal treatment. I wanted to fool myself into thinking it was no big deal, that taking these pills was like taking a painkiller. But after several rounds of medication and no pregnancy, the specialist suggested we start with injectable medications. He explained that injectables are usually more effective, as they target the body more directly than the oral form.

The general treatment protocol wasn’t much different from taking the pills. With both forms of treatment there was constant bloodwork and monitoring, which meant attending appointments sometimes as often as four mornings a week. Yet injecting myself nightly with large needles felt so invasive. Injectables are generally given in higher doses than the pills I’d been taking, and with each failed cycle, the dose kept creeping up, as did the side effects. I was exhausted, nauseous, and hopeful yet anxious all at the same time.

We were married two and a half years when the phone call came. “Congratulations. Your blood test is positive, you’re expecting,” the nurse sang out. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe we were finally there.

In my excitement, I made the calculation that the baby would be born right before our third anniversary, which felt to me still within “normal” range. That was a huge relief, so terrified were we of becoming one of “them.” The couple without kids. The couple doing fertility treatment.

At my six-week ultrasound we found out I was expecting twins. Yes, twins run in my family. And yes, twin pregnancies are more common with my particular treatment. Would that mean everyone would know our secret? Would that mean I’d no longer appear “normal”? We decided to rely on the first of the two fun facts and tell people that twins run in the family.

We shared the good news, first with our parents and then with a couple of siblings. We even told them it was twins. Just to be safe, we decided to wait until the first trimester was over to tell the rest of our family and close friends, and we counted down until that day.

In the meantime, my husband found a job. With two babies on the way, we needed the income. When we realized that my upcoming 13-week doctor’s appointment was during working hours on my husband’s first week on the job, I decided I’d go myself. It’s just a routine appointment, I told myself. I’m a big girl.

At the ultrasound, the technician didn’t say a word. She just kept looking at the screen, clicking, and moving the wand around again and again. I was familiar with this, having had so many scans with all my monitoring appointments, but I looked over at the screen and saw that the measurements read two weeks less than it should have. Also, the sonographer didn’t let me hear the heartbeats.

I asked her if everything was okay.

“The doctor will talk to you soon,” she murmured.

I immediately knew something was wrong.

I met the doctor in his office where he informed me that I’d miscarried both fetuses about two weeks earlier, and I’d need a D&C to remove the pregnancy.

I held myself together as I walked out of the office to my car and immediately called my husband and told him I was coming to pick him up from work early.

Then the dam broke.

Along the Way

Knowing I had ovulatory dysfunction made me all the more anxious to try treatments again as soon as possible, because who knew how long it would take, what complications and setbacks I’d hit along the way.

But it took time to start again. We had recently relocated, so I needed to find a new doctor and start from scratch. It felt almost like wasted time until we got started with the actual treatment. And it was intensely disheartening to do this all over again, with nothing to show for it from the first time.

On the day of my original due date, all I did was weep from the pain of it all.

Finally, a year later, we got The Call. Positive once again. I was filled with excitement, but also with terror because of what had happened.

Yet this time it was meant to be. Our first child, our bechor, was born just before our fourth anniversary.

I remember the dramatic birth clearly. The baby’s heart rate kept dropping until at one point it became dangerously low, and I needed an emergency C-section. This was after 24 hours of labor. I was so scared and overwhelmed, I started crying. The nurse came over and said, “Don’t worry, dear, you can still have a natural birth after this,” and I was thinking, I really don’t care about that. You just told me my baby might not make it.

When my son was finally born and I heard him cry for the first time, I couldn’t stop bawling myself… and when at long last I held him in my arms, the joy and elation were surreal.

I was so content with my lot and so grateful to be there undividedly for my baby boy that the intensity of everything that led up to my pregnancy and his birth receded, and I enjoyed being able to move at a slower pace.

But then the reminders started.

We Were Different

My son’s first birthday came and went. His year-and-a-half mark came and went. Suddenly, I really wanted a second child. I knew it could take time, and I really wanted kids close in age.

And it felt like everyone around us was reminding us that we were different. We’d bought our house after my son was born, planning to move into the basement and rent out the rest of the house to help pay the mortgage. But by the time the house was ready, my baby was two, and I’d been living in a basement for over six years and had had enough. We decided to move in upstairs.

So many neighbors had comments. As if moving into the upstairs wasn’t your right if you only had one child, as if I hadn’t already done my lonely time in a basement apartment, as if it didn’t matter that most of my contemporaries were also moving into bigger houses, because they had two, three, four kids.

And we still had only one. I’d so badly hoped that the second time round I’d find myself expecting naturally. But that wasn’t the plan for me, and once again we were thrust into this world I’d wished was behind us.

There’s a lot of testing involved when you go for treatment, even if you’ve been there before. Everything takes time. You wait to get the testing done, then wait again for the results to come through, then wait some more until all the preparatory procedures take place, then wait even more for the right time to start treatment.

And that was the story of waiting for our second child: Injectables, daven, endless appointments, daven, wait and see, daven, nothing. Injectables, daven, endless appointments, daven, wait and see, daven, nothing. Finally, a pregnancy.

We were over the moon. This time we didn’t tell a soul until well into the second trimester, and even then, I held my breath.

It was an uneventful pregnancy, and my daughter was born naturally just past my son’s third birthday.

Despite my dream for lots of kids within a short amount of time, I appreciated that my life was slightly less chaotic than I’d envisioned. It’s not easy watching people around you having babies quickly when it’s something you really want for yourself. For every one I had, it seemed like the people around me had two in that time. At the time I had a close friend and neighbor with eight children under ten. Visiting her always made me feel awkward. Her son is the same age as mine, but when I had one after him, she had four.

I held on to the hope that maybe with a third child, things would happen quickly, naturally.

But my daughter got older and once again I realized that if I wanted to move things along, I’d have to give it my own best shot to merit another child.

This time my body was even more stubborn. There was one failed cycle after another. My doctor kept upping the dose and changing the medication. I was warned I’d need to proceed with a more invasive procedure if injectables didn’t work one last time.  I was physically and emotionally exhausted from it all.

I didn’t want anyone to know what we were going through. There were times I’d take my husband’s car, rather than my own, to my early-morning appointments, lest people question where I was leaving to at five in the morning on an ongoing basis. I live in a dense neighborhood, around people who are particularly outspoken. It’s not that I didn’t want people to know I had doctors’ appointments, it was just… I’m scared of questions. Casual, thoughtless comments hurt me enough. So at that unearthly hour I always made sure to leave undetected. (Ironically, a neighbor once stopped my husband to ask, “Hey, I noticed you started davening neitz, can I ask what minyan you attend?”)

And then, finally, it worked. I was expecting again. Twins.

My Story Continues

I’ve been married for 12 years. I’m in my mid-thirties and have four beautiful children; my light, my joy.

Yet my story is far from over.

Frum literature abounds with stories on infertility. Much is spoken about the empty apartments, the quiet nights. But fewer speak about what it’s like to live with infertility once you already have a child, what it’s like to appear “normal” while inwardly struggling with this every day, what it’s like to attend appointments with a fertility specialist indefinitely… while making arrangements for your children. People don’t talk about the financial toll on couples who need infertility treatment for more than one child. (The huge costs could make their own article.)

There’s not even really a label for people like me: I have children, so should I use the word infertility to describe my circumstance? Secondary infertility isn’t accurate either — that’s usually a problem that develops after already having a child. So where does that leave me?

We live in a community that values large families and takes them for granted. But the assumptions that accompany that reality can be so painful.

One winter, I met an old schoolmate in the toy store. We chatted a bit, and then she looked into my cart and asked, “What are you getting your boys for Chanukah?” (I have one son, mind you.)

“Oh, nothing major,” I told her. “Maybe a puzzle.”

She gave me a funny look. “But how old is your son, can I ask?”

“Just four,” I said to her.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Then: “Oh, I thought for sure you have big boys.”

I’ve gotten used to those — to the awkward questions, the uncomfortable silences, and the endless assumptions. But they hurt. It hurts when someone asks how old I am, how long I was married, and then I see mental cogs whir. It hurts when someone assumes I’m younger than I am, just because my kids are little.

And it hurts when people make mental calculations on my behalf, or drop casual comments that remind me that we’re not “normal.”

At a recent family simchah, I saw my mother’s cousin. While chatting, catching up, she asked me, “How old is your oldest?”

“Seven and a half,” I told her.

“Oh, that can’t be,” she told me. “My Esty got married after you, and her oldest is already ten!” By now, most people understand the importance of speaking sensitively around couples who do not yet have children. But somehow, once you have a child, no one seems to realize that you may still be in pain.

The pain doesn’t just go away. It waxes and wanes on repeat. Recently I heard that a classmate from high school gave birth to twins, numbers eight and nine, and that her oldest just turned 13. I felt the pang keenly. And when a colleague at work casually mentioned that she’d soon need a 15-passenger van at the rate she was going, I felt a physical hurt. I’m still constantly making calculations around how many kids I might still be able to have, given my age and particular set of circumstances. There’s a measure of pain in being a step behind your peers, in making an upsheren while your friends are close to celebrating bar mitzvahs.

At work, even though I’m one of the older ones, I keep finding myself lumped with the younger ones, because, you know, why would bar mitzvah conversations be of any interest to me? So it isn’t only how we measure, it’s also how we divide.

When my oldest was six, he turned to me and asked, “Mommy, how long are you and Tatty married?”

“Ten years,” I told him.

“So how come I’m not nine?” he wanted to know.

More recently, my daughter asked, “Mommy, when are we having a baby again?”

Nothing like your own children to say it straight.

Every time I complain about a normal childhood frustration, I feel guilty. I wanted this, didn’t I? I davened for it. I want to have more children, don’t I?

And the answer is, Yes! I do! I want to have more children and I want to feel the full range of feelings that comes along with it. The desire, the joy, the gratitude, but also the pain, the overwhelm, the fatigue. All of it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 896)