As I prepared myself for yet another fertility test, getting ready to place my legs in those daunting stirrups, a different doctor—one I hadn’t seen before—turned to me and asked, “You’ve experienced a couple of losses, correct?”
I replied, “Well, I had a chemical pregnancy last May, and our first IVF cycle didn’t succeed.”
He nodded and said, “So, yes, one loss. You’ve had a loss.”
That word—“loss”—hit me hard. Until that moment, I hadn’t really processed what had happened. I had just thought of it as a chemical pregnancy, but hearing him say it made me confront the reality: it was indeed a miscarriage, an early loss.
Perhaps it was the clinical term “chemical pregnancy” that made it feel less significant. Maybe I hesitated to fully acknowledge the pain of losing our first and only baby. But as I pondered his words, I realized he was right. That little life, just 4 weeks and 2 days old, had made me a mom.
When I found out our second IVF attempt was successful, I became hyper-aware of everything. What should I eat? Should I be resting more? I fantasized about what it would be like to have a tiny baby inside of me while also bracing myself for the possibility that it might not last.
My hCG beta levels were low, and the looming blood test on the following Tuesday felt like a countdown. It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I could still call myself a mother on that day. Those who were aware of my pregnancy wished me a happy Mother’s Day, and my husband gifted me a beautiful plant to honor my role as a mom that day.
I indulged in pickles like I was on a mission. Symptoms were minimal, as it was early, but there were signs. Whether they were from the progesterone shots that IVF patients endure or actual pregnancy symptoms, they felt real to me.
In those fleeting moments between that Friday and Tuesday, I embraced the idea that I was pregnant. I began to feel like a mom, despite the signs suggesting otherwise. Pregnancy is a world of uncertainty; what seems to be a sign can easily lead to doubt. Even when I experienced a tiny bit of bleeding that weekend, I clung to hope, holding my husband’s hand and seeing the worry in his eyes.
After the latest test, when I stepped out of the clinic, the tears flowed freely in my car. The mixture of pain from the test and the realization of my loss overwhelmed me. I had been holding onto hope for three weeks, ever since the embryo had entered my life at just two days old. That’s one of the beauties of IVF—you get to see your baby almost from the start.
In the end, it was enough. I was allowed to mourn the baby that was, and the one that could have been. Hearing the word “loss” stung, but it also helped me accept that I was a mom, even if just for a moment. And you, too, are a mom.
For more insights on home insemination and resources that can guide you through this journey, check out this helpful blog post. Additionally, you can find great information at Make a Mom, a trusted source on the topic. For further reading, Progyny offers excellent resources about pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This heartfelt narrative explores the poignant journey of motherhood through the lens of infertility and loss, reflecting on how even the briefest moments can define our identities as mothers. It emphasizes the emotional complexity of pregnancy loss and the hope that accompanies the journey of trying to conceive.