My husband and my journey towards becoming parents started in March of 2020, right alongside the start of the pandemic. We'd planned for a long time that we'd start trying in March, timing it so that we wouldn't run the risk of missing my sister's wedding (ironic in retrospect, on multiple levels). We were thrilled when, after our third month of trying, I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
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For 3 years infertility ruled my life. It was almost an obsession, every spare moment devoted to looking up things to “help”. Putting off any plans for the future because … what if I was on my period, in the middle of a cycle or .. pregnant!
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This wasn’t the way I had envisioned my story ending. I was just six years old when one of my fallopian tubes became entangled in itself and turned gangrene. I was too young then to understand what it meant or to even care.
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After 3 years of IVF, losses, surgeries and heartbreak after heartbreak, I sat in my fertility docs office at what felt like the 100th “WTF Appt” trying to piece together the “what went wrong” and “what’s next” with my then boyfriend.
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