Infertility 1, Us 0

It’s official, our first round of fertility treatments has failed.

I tried so hard not to get my hopes up, and remind myself that it can take several tries for it to work, if it’s going to work for you. But I was encouraged by my doctors who looked at all our labs and felt that this protocol would likely lead to a pregnancy for us. Although they did make sure to remind us that it could take more than one round. As our first round progressed, and everything continued to look good, I let hope take root in my heart and grow like a weed. “This could be it!” I thought over and over again.

I instantly began to cry as I listened to the nurse’s message on my phone. “It’s negative. I’m sorry.” All of my hopes and dreams slipping away as quickly as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I thought about the date that I had hoped would become my due date, the day before my next birthday. I thought about the trip we’re taking in the spring, and how I hoped it would become a babymoon. I thought about the empty nursery upstairs that would remain empty even longer. It just wasn’t meant to be. At least not yet.

I despise the rollercoaster that infertility takes you on. The hope and anticipation, then crushing devastation as it all comes crashing down as you hold yet another negative pregnancy test in your hands. Add that to our already difficult journey with bereaved parenthood, and it’s downright miserable.

Of course, there is still hope. We talked to my doctor, who said she would have liked for me to respond a little better to one of my meds, so we’re changing the dosage and hoping that’s the boost I need. If not, there’s other options for the round after that.

Of course, that all sounds promising if that was all there was to worry about, but it feels like flushing money down the drain when a cycle fails. Especially since most American health insurance providers cover 0% of infertility treatments. But I’ll keep my soapbox in the closet, and save that speech for another time.

Here’s to more meds that make me extremely hormonal, shots expertly administered by my husband, and more needle pokes than I can count! Bring it on, round two! We’ll be seeing you soon.

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Dear Aria: A letter to our baby girl on her second birthday in heaven.

Sweet Aria,

If I could sneak into heaven today, I would do it bright and early. I’d tip toe into your room and kneel alongside your bed. I would pause for a moment as you slept, and take in the sight of you, my perfect sleeping angel. I’d brush the wisps of hair from your eyes, and whisper, “good morning, birthday girl!”

But today I will whisper from afar, and pray that you can hear me.

“Good Morning, birthday girl.”

Two. Sweet girl, today you are two. In the blink of an eye, two full years have passed since we first held you in our arms. Two years since you took those big beautiful breaths, showing us just how strong and brave you are.

I could spend hours repeating how much I miss you and wish you were here, yet deep down I know that you wouldn’t wish for that. Today is a day to celebrate. Today is about giving thanks for the gift that was and is your brief and perfect life.

So today there will be cake, there will be the Rose family birthday song, there will be birthday candles in remembrance of you. There will be joy, there will be laughter, and most of all, there will be love.

I hope you have the most wonderful second birthday in heaven sweet baby. I hope all of your wishes come true. I hope you have a belly full of birthday cake, and a heart that knows just how much you are loved.

We miss you. We wish you were here.

Happy Birthday, Aria.

Goodbye 2017, Hello 2018.

It’s officially that time of year. We’ve swapped out our Christmas greetings with, “Happy New Year!” Shelves are being stocked with 2018 calendars, and there’s talk of New Years resolutions everywhere you look.

Last year, as we rang in 2017, we were so hopeful that this year would be one of redemption. We had been praying that we would be blessed with a sibling for Aria for a few months before the new year, and it felt like our time was coming. But month after month went by, winter turned to spring, spring turned to summer, and still no baby. Then one doctor’s appointment turned into ten, and test after test showed nothing conclusive. We were confused, they were confused, so my doctor made a shot in the dark, which led to me holding a positive pregnancy test on an early August morning. And then that turned into me in my doctor’s office hearing things like “I’m sorry.” And “this happens all the time.” As I struggled to cope with the reality that we had miscarried.

But we did as we’ve had to do with every single heartbreak in the last two years, we dried our tears, held onto each others hands, and kept going. We found new doctors, better doctors, who ran even more tests. We talked about options, started saving, and came up with a plan. So as we welcome 2018, we are embarking on another adventure. Hopefully one thousand steps closer to growing our family once again.

And as hopeful as we are, I will admit that the spending the last year fighting infertility has been hard. So unbelievably hard. But we’re pushing back as much as we can.

We also have a project of a different kind that we’ll be unveiling this summer, and are so anxiously excited to share it. I wish I could say more about it, so I could fill this paragraph with more detailed anticipatory statements, but it’s going to be good. So very good. And I can’t wait for you to see it.

Of course, the real big day for us isn’t actually New Years Day. It’s January 2nd. Aria’s birthday. This coming year, she would have been turning two. I’m even less ready for it this year than I was last year. It doesn’t get any easier, or simpler, or less agonizing. I can’t stop thinking about all that we’re missing now. Her hair would be so long, because I know I would have refused to cut a single centimeter of those gorgeous dark locks. She’d be communicating, and bossing us around, and likely giving validity to the term, “the terrible twos.” But we’d love it all, and sweet Aria would be loving us back tenfold. She’d be blossoming, and growing, and thriving more and more each day.

God, I miss her.

All in all, 2017 has been quite a challenge. But there’s been such an undeniable bright spot in it, Lana. Our sweet dog who also turns two in January. She came to us at the start of this year and has made every hardship much more bearable. 2017 also gave Brian a very unexpected work trip to Disneyland, which I was able to tag along for, so with the combination of those things I suppose I can’t say it was the worst year.

But 2018 will be a better year. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

She could have been anything.

Today I saw a post on Instagram, asking moms who have lost little ones what they wondered about the futures they could have had. Specifically, what they could have been if they had the chance to grow into adulthood.

And I thought about Aria, and what she could have been, which took me right back to the thoughts and conversations I often had during my pregnancy.

It was very important to me that she grew up to believe she had the ability to be absolutely anything she wanted to be. I worried constantly about making sure we never placed invisible borders around her.

We often called her a princess, simply because she was our girl, and we’ve got a huge love for Disney. But I remember thinking I didn’t want to call her that too much, just in case she wanted to be a knight instead. Or a doctor. Or a veterinarian. Or an Artist. I never wanted her to believe she had to fit into a mold. I even remember having a hormonal moment about baby dolls, because I was frustrated that all the ones in the store had blonde hair and blue eyes. I was infuriated. One thing I knew for sure, with me being Korean with dark hair and brown eyes, and my husband also having dark hair and brown eyes, was that Aria would have dark hair and brown eyes. I was terrified of her growing up in a world where the standard of beauty was something other than the race she was, and features she had. I grew up that way, and I didn’t want it for her.

I wanted her to look at the world and see endless opportunity. So being here, on this side of heaven, living life without Aria in my arms, it feels as if the world has lost so much. She could have been absolutely anything. She could have been a revolutionary research scientist. She could have been the author of the next great American novel. She could have been the inventor of a life saving medical device. She could have painted a portrait to rival the Mona Lisa. She could have been a mother, raising children who would change the world just as she did. She could have been anything, and now we’ll never know.

I suppose that is why we’re so dedicated to doing good things in her honor. I know she would have been a world changer, and I’ve got to try to accomplish some of it in honor of the legacy she would have left, if only she had the chance.

“Do you ever wonder if that’s all we’re ever going to be?”

Brian and I were walking through the mall tonight after an overwhelming visit with our Reproductive Endocrinologist (aka our Infertility Doctor), and I saw an adorable shirt with the words, “Dog Mom” on it. I pointed the shirt out to Brian and he asked, “Do you ever wonder if that’s all we’re ever going to be?”

My heart initially sank, I didn’t want him to ever feel that way, but I had to admit that I knew exactly what he was feeling because I fear that every single day. I fear that all we’ll ever have is our babies in heaven and our dog. I guess in some ways I’m thankful. I am so grateful that I was chosen to be the one to carry my daughter, no matter how brief her life ended up being. I’m even grateful for the baby that we miscarried because for the short few weeks I carried that baby, I got to feel such an overwhelming hope and excitement that I hadn’t felt in such a long time. Then there’s our sweet four legged angel in a fur coat, who brings such a beautiful daily happiness into our home. I’m grateful for all of them, and the color they have added to our world.

But despite all that, there is fear in wondering if this is it for us. Never to hold another baby in our arms, never to know the sweet sound of our newborn’s first cry. So many hopes and dreams never coming to fruition.

Earlier today I was sure we would leave our RE’s office with answers, a solid plan, and lots of hope. Instead we left feeling uneasy and confused about our next steps. The hard thing is that when it comes to fertility treatments, nothing is guaranteed. You can spend thousands and still walk out of there empty handed. It’s beyond frustrating and completely unfair. Yet the thing that keeps pulling us back is the chance that it could work, and then of course it would all be worth it in the end.

But it’s nights like tonight that I am fearing if this is all we’ll ever be, and it is so very hard.

Loss, infertility, and admitting there’s a problem.

When I miscarried a year and a half after our newborn daughter passed away, I wasn’t sure we would try again. At first we didn’t want to. It was too much for our broken hearts to bear.

But as the first weeks passed, a renewed hope filled our hearts and we decided to keep trying. They say you’re more fertile after a miscarriage, so what did I have to lose? Well, it turns out that isn’t true for everyone.

Last week, I became so frustrated and so tired of waiting, that I finally made the phone call I had been dreading, and set up a consult with a fertility clinic.

We’ve had tests done at two different fertility clinics in the past, but I was referred there by my regular OB/GYN. I felt like I had a small safety net by seeing a “regular” doctor that all women see. I didn’t feel like I was infertile in that waiting room. But sitting in the waiting room in a fertility clinic, that makes it real. And well, I didn’t want it to be real.

Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, folks.

But they say admitting the problem is the first step, and I guess admitting the problem is bigger than your regular gynecologist can handle is the second.

It only took a few minutes on the phone with them for me to realize that I was making a really good decision. My fertility specialist put me through more in one appointment than my old doctor did in six months, and that makes me feel like something is actually moving forward. And it helps that the homepage for our clinic’s website says, “Where the waiting ends and families begin.” And dear God, I hope so.

We are waiting for all my tests to come back before finalizing our plans forward, but I already feel so much hope. As my doctor said on Tuesday, “You’ve been through a lot of rough stuff. We need to get you some happy news. It’s time.”

Missing Her

Last night I turned to my husband in tears and said, “Nobody misses her like I miss her.”

And I guess it makes sense that no one misses Aria like I do. I’m the only person in the entire world that was chosen to be her mother. I’m the only one who knows what it was like to carry her in my body. I’m the only one who knows the agony of feeling her kick as the doctors told us she was dying. I was the first one to kiss her sweet face. I was the last one to hold her when we said goodbye.

But that’s the injustice in loss. Even though the rational part of my brain gets it, my heart does not. My mama heart just wants her to be loved all over the world, in the exact same way that I love her. And I think maybe more people would love and miss her like I do if they had more time to get to know her, but tragedy stole that from us. No one was able to bond with her exactly the way Brian and I did while she was here.

Every time she’s not acknowledged it stings, maybe more now than ever. As time moves forward and people move forward, the grief gets more isolating and internal.

But there are those who do love and miss her. The loss of her wasn’t the same for them as it was for Brian and I, but Aria still left her mark on them. And I’m so grateful for them. I only wish we were all given more time.