The Waiting (room) Game: infertility and In Vitro Fertilization (IVF)

Greetings, fellow IVF warriors,

Today, I found myself in the midst of the most challenging part of my IVF journey, and I can't help but share the raw and real emotions that surged through me. It was a day of both sanctuary and torment as I returned to the familiar waiting room of the KFI fertility institute, a place that has become like a second home, surrounded by our extended family of hope and resilience. This visit marked my first check-up after a procedure that induced contractions, a process aimed at guiding my body through the painful task of letting go after a heart-wrenching miscarriage.

Picture this: A process that would typically involve the blessed relief of an epidural for many, yet here I was, enduring immense pain without that luxury. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and drained. My incredible husband stood by my side for a grueling 36 hours, providing unwavering support in every possible way. He gently applied cold rags to my forehead, held the trashcan as I battled waves of nausea, ensured I had fluids, wiped away my tears, held my trembling hand, and faced the heart-wrenching task of flushing away the remnants of our lost dream. Each flush felt like an unbearable goodbye that I wasn't prepared for.

It was a cruel blend of blood and tears, leaving my body drained, with the bleeding continuing for days. Eventually, it was time for a follow-up appointment. The doctor requested an ultrasound once the bleeding ceased to ensure everything had passed and to discuss the next steps. A different kind of pain gripped me—the thought of moving forward felt like a betrayal to the memory of our precious baby girl. It was as if we were relegating her memory to something transient, like an expired item in the fridge, discarded in pursuit of something new. The weight of this decision bore heavily on my heart. What I truly longed for were contractions leading to a different outcome—the joy of holding her on her anticipated birth date, July 6, 2024. Every step forward now feels like a step away from her and the future we had envisioned.

Sitting in that waiting room, I was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions. It was a space filled with the joyful echoes of other women's hopes and dreams, their happiness amplifying my profound loss. Envy crept in as I felt robbed of the joy these women were experiencing. It was a cruel twist of fate; their happiness accentuated my grief.

My anxiety skyrocketed, and I hung on to every conversation and congratulatory hug, each one a reminder of what I had lost. As I waited to discover if my body had released what my heart still clung to, the idea of seeing the ultrasound on that big screen, once a source of joy, now terrified me. Part of me held onto the irrational hope of a miracle, a glimpse of her growing and her heart beating strongly. Deep down, I knew the painful truth—this was a gut-wrenching moment.

During that agonizing wait, a part of me yearned to scream and vent my frustration at the unfairness of it all. I even entertained a fleeting, darkly humorous thought of wanting to punch every happily expectant mother, giggling couple, or smiling person in that room. It was a momentary, absurd desire born from pain and envy, a stark contrast to my usual self.

The waiting room became an emotional battlefield. I struggled to hold myself together amidst the chaos of grief and shattered dreams. This journey is not just a physical one; it's an emotional odyssey where hope and heartache entwine in intricate complexity.

To all of you out there in your own waiting rooms, facing your unique battles, remember that your feelings are valid, your journey is your own, and you are never alone. Your strength and resilience shine through, even in the toughest of times.