“I’ve been on the fertility train for nearly 5 years. As a former scientist, I initially tried to ‘hack my hormones’ by improving my diet, and so on. When that didn’t work, I sought an ob/gyn. She wanted to put me on clomiphene to stimulate ovulation, without even trying to find out what was wrong first. It felt very unscientific to me.

After 18 months, nothing had happened, so I had a procedure called a sonohysterogram to examine my ovaries. It didn’t work, though, and the injected dye wouldn’t reach my fallopian tubes. The doctors were ready to give up, but I pushed for a laparoscopy and hysteroscopy. This procedure ultimately showed my fallopian tubes were not connected, which of course explained why fertility treatments and the sonohysterogram had failed. 

I awoke from surgery in December 2017 and found my doctor telling me that I would never have a child. This became my first real exposure to grief, and over the next months, the response from friends and family was so inadequate. Either their faces went blank or they made a flippant remark like “Can’t you just adopt?” As a result, I stopped sharing my pain with others. I internalized it, as so many women do, and went silent.

A few months later, I found a doctor who felt I was a good candidate for IVF. I didn’t know much about it, but the deeper I went into that world, the more I learned that IVF and fertility treatments are incredibly common. In fact, one of my best friends had been going through IVF for a several months, and I’d had no idea because, like many women, she wasn’t comfortable speaking up about it.

As my own IVF began, I quickly learned that I had no idea what I was in for; it was so physically and emotionally exhausting. Thankfully, I did get pregnant, and my husband and I were so excited. However, after 7 weeks, the baby stopped growing. Because of IVF, I had to keep going back to the doctor to confirm it had actually died. It took 2.5 weeks before the doctor said, “Yes, this baby definitely isn’t growing.” I then quit IVF hormones, and after 2 more weeks, the miscarriage began. It lasted 19 days, which I was not expecting. I didn’t realize miscarriages were a long, many-day process of pain and heavy bleeding—and I was angry that I hadn’t known. That the realities of fertility and miscarriage are so shrouded behind shame and silence.

Unfortunately, after 19 days, I still had not passed the gestational sac so I still had to have a dilation and curettage (D&C). I really wish this option had been on the table from the start; it would have saved so much time and pain for me. Worse, given the conservative area of the USA in which I live, a lot of my healthcare staff responded with comments about my miscarriage being part of god’s plan or they asked if I had a church to go to for support. As a non-religious person, this felt deeply inappropriate and uncomfortable.

Overall, my issue with healthcare is that we are not treated as individuals and just moved along a conveyer belt. A doctor who had worked with my husband and I several times and even operated on me, reintroduced himself every time we met him. 

I do want to mention, though, that I am really lucky because my husband is amazing and we communicate well. I was the one who took our fertility challenges and miscarriage the hardest, and he has supported me every step of the way. As women, we are programmed that our only job is to have a baby, so being told that I was “barren” filled me with such deep shame and deep pain. I was truly convinced, after my surgery in 2017, that my husband would leave me. Instead, he has been my biggest support—and I know how rare and lucky this is.

Right now, the pain of miscarriage is still incredibly fresh for me. I had my D&C only a week ago, and the trauma of carrying the gestational sac for 2.5 months is something I have yet to work through. Moving forward, my husband and I plan to do another round of IVF as soon as we are able. I’ll be 35 in 2 weeks, so I feel like time is ticking.”