More Than Miscarriage

Gearing up for your first embryo transfer is exciting.

But it’s also terrifying.

You’ve already made it through appointments, medications, needles, procedures, egg retrieval, waiting for embryo updates—and now you’re finally getting to the part you’ve been working toward.

The transfer.

The moment when an embryo would finally be placed inside me.

The moment when, for the first time, I could think:

Maybe this is my baby.

Getting Ready

Before I could even start preparing for transfer, I had to have the dreaded saline sonogram.

At this point, I felt like I had already been through so many procedures, but there was still something nerve-racking about it. They needed to make sure everything inside my uterus looked exactly how it should. No polyps. No abnormalities. Nothing that could potentially interfere with implantation.

Once I got the all-clear, we waited for my next period.

And then it was time.

Another IVF calendar.

Another medication schedule.

Except this time, these medications weren’t preparing my body to make eggs. They were preparing my body for an embryo.

And I knew that if this worked, these medications would become part of my life for weeks afterward.

I had my baseline ultrasound, which almost felt routine by then. Ultrasounds, bloodwork, appointments—I knew the drill.

Then came the estrogen.

Pills and patches.

And no one warned me how exhausted I would feel.

I felt like a zombie in my own body. The combination of medications made it difficult to function some days. But I kept reminding myself why I was doing it.

Over the next couple of weeks, I went back to the clinic to have my lining checked.

Every appointment brought me one step closer.

And then came the medication I had been dreading:

Progesterone in oil.

PIO.

And that needle.

I knew going into IVF that eventually I was going to have to stick that huge needle into myself, but knowing it was coming and actually holding it in your hand are two very different things.

The first night, I couldn’t do it.

My husband hates needles, so having him give it to me wasn’t exactly an option.

So my dad did my first injection.

I needed someone else to do it once so I could prove to myself that I could survive it.

After that, I started doing the injections myself.

But I was never really doing them alone.

Every night, my husband was right there.

He would stand next to me with a paper towel ready to hold pressure afterward. He’d have the Band-Aid ready. Then he’d get me an ice pack and help me get comfortable so I could lie down.

He wasn’t the one holding the needle.

But he was there.

Every single night.

And sometimes support doesn’t look like doing the hard thing for someone.

Sometimes it’s simply making sure they never have to do the hard thing alone.

Transfer Day

After about a week of PIO, it was finally here.

Transfer day.

I had been counting down.

This was the day an embryo was going to be transferred into me.

A baby.

A real chance at having the baby I had wanted for so long.

That morning almost felt like a dream.

I woke up late, had some tea and tried to relax. I hydrated all morning because I knew I needed that wonderfully uncomfortable full bladder for the procedure.

Then we headed to the clinic.

I filled out the paperwork.

My bladder was full.

I was ready.

I was nervous about the catheter because previous procedures involving my uterus had been painful, and I was preparing myself for that feeling again.

But this time was different.

It didn’t hurt.

I watched everything happen on the ultrasound screen.

I watched my doctor guide the catheter into place and could see exactly where our embryo was going to be placed.

Then the embryologist loaded our embryo into another catheter.

This was it.

Except our embryo apparently had other plans.

It didn’t want to leave the catheter.

So we had to do it again.

And then, finally, it happened.

Our embryo was placed.

I saw that tiny little spark on the ultrasound screen.

And my husband and I were so happy.

For that moment, there was nothing else.

There was just us and this tiny embryo that we desperately hoped would become our baby.

And Then We Waited

Then came the two-week wait.

And I hated it.

I wanted to test every single day.

I wanted an answer.

I am already an impatient person, so being told to simply wait to find out whether something this important had worked felt almost impossible.

I didn’t buy any more pregnancy tests.

And my husband hid the ones we already had.

Somehow, I actually made it to my blood test without testing at home.

When the day finally came, I went to the clinic, had my blood drawn and went to work.

And then I waited again.

I tried to keep myself busy.

I tried to work.

I tried to think about literally anything else.

But I couldn’t stop looking at my phone.

Every ten minutes, I was checking it.

Did they call?

Did I miss it?

Is my phone on loud?

When are they going to call?

Because I knew that one phone call was going to change everything.

Either I had a baby growing inside me…

or the transfer hadn’t worked.

Finally, my phone rang.

I walked outside of my office to answer it.

My hCG was less than 5.

The transfer hadn’t worked.

And I fell to the ground crying.

I couldn’t believe it.

All of the appointments.

The medications.

The patches.

The shots.

The giant PIO needles.

The procedures.

The waiting.

The hope.

Everything I had done to get to that moment…

and it didn’t work.

It broke me.

I was only halfway through my workday, but there was absolutely no way I could go back inside and pretend everything was normal.

I grabbed my purse.

Everything else stayed behind.

I messaged my boss from my car and told her I had to leave.

And I went home.

I got into bed and didn’t want to get back out.

When a Transfer Fails

A failed transfer does something to you.

It makes you wonder if this is ever going to happen.

It makes something you’ve wanted your entire life suddenly feel completely out of reach.

You let yourself imagine that embryo becoming your baby.

You calculate dates.

You picture what life could look like.

And then, with one phone call, that future disappears.

I was devastated.

But eventually, I did what so many IVF women learn to do.

I picked myself back up.

I asked, “What’s next?”

What can we change?

What can we do differently?

How can we make the next transfer work?

But I didn’t pick up those pieces alone.

My husband was there through all of it.

He made sure anything I needed was taken care of. He gave me a safe place to say exactly what I was feeling—the anger, sadness, fear and heartbreak.

He let me fall apart.

And he stayed.

I don’t think he’ll ever fully know how much his hugs and his love helped put some of those broken pieces back together.

IVF makes you strong in ways you never imagined you would have to be.

It gives you an armor you never knew you needed.

You learn how to inject yourself.

You learn how to walk into appointments you’re terrified of.

You learn how to survive phone calls that completely break your heart.

And somehow, you learn how to get back up and try again.

But I didn’t build that armor by myself.

My husband helped me build it.

I’m strong because he helped me be strong.

And when I didn’t have enough strength of my own, he carried some of it for me.