Fertility Diaries - part two

Friends, this is part two of a three-part series I’ll be sharing over the next few weeks. You can read part one here.

24 August 2024

I really thought I’d be pregnant by now, a mum in some form.

I get sad at different points, and it’s only been a few months.

Apparently, it’s not considered ‘infertility’ until you’ve been actively trying for a year.

So what does that make this, this weird limbo phase where things aren’t bad enough to justify being devastated but aren’t going smoothly, either?

Is there a word for struggling with the idea of infertility? The possibility of it? Grappling with what a future would look like if we couldn’t—ever—get pregnant?

//

It’s Father’s Day next week and I’ve had to let go of a secret dream I’ve had. In the past year, I’ve thought about all the ways I could tell Matt I’m pregnant.

I’d originally thought that telling him on our anniversary trip—back in late June—would have been beautiful.

But when that didn’t pan out, my new dream was to be able to tell him this Father’s Day, for the first time ever, “Hey, you’re a dad.”

Except that he isn’t, not yet. And I’m carrying some of the weight of feeling like that’s my fault.

Why is my body failing? Why am I failing?

1 September

The joke came in the family group chat, aimed at Matt: “If you get to work now, you could be celebrating Father’s Day next year.” (Cue the wink and smirk emojis.)

I haven’t opened the chat because I’m not sure how to respond. I’ve been taught that jokes are funny when they contain elements of truth.

This one must be hilarious.

5 September

We weave our way along the crowded footpath of Bangkok’s streets after dinner, dodging motorbikes that decided it’d be quicker to ditch the road and join us.

The thick Thai heat hangs in the air as I marvel at the empathy of these two men I’ve only known for two days — colleagues from one my workplace’s international offices.

“Ah, you have [pee-coss]?” one nods sympathetically, having, to my complete surprise, guessed my recent diagnosis of PCOS without me even saying it.

All it took was a look at my face when he asked when I plan on having kids.

//

Am I speaking something into existence just by worrying about it?

The advice from everyone: just relax, it’ll happen when you’re not thinking about it.

The advice from Christians: just relax, it’ll happen in God’s timing.

The advice that’s also everywhere: do x-y-z, get blood tests, have an ultrasound, lose weight, change your sleep cycles, cut out stress, pay for this course, eat differently…

Then maybe, maybe…

You might get lucky.

9 October

We just got off the phone; she’s pregnant.

And they hadn’t even been trying.

I’m reminded that I’m the one whose body isn’t working.

//

My brother-in-law’s words from his recent call keep ringing in my ears — if Matt and I get pregnant soon, we’ll be telling everyone by Christmas.

We’re running out of time.

Some days, Matt’s optimism really irks me.

He’s giving everyone the impression that PCOS is no big deal. He doesn’t want them to worry, I get that, but it feels dismissive.

He doesn’t have to live inside a body that’s not working the way it was meant to.

21 October

It’s consuming so many of my thoughts.

I’m torn between not feeling ready and wanting it so badly, and maybe I’m telling myself I’m not ready because I’m afraid to hope.

Next Saturday will be the day I get a blood test and potentially find out if I’m pregnant.

And I’m terrified.

Because now it feels like I’m supposed to get pregnant. Like nothing is standing in our way; I’m on fertility medication now, and Matt got the tests done and he’s all good—not that we ever really doubted that.

So now, we wait.

22 October

I choose to trust You.

14 November

The cramps are here, telling the story of a woman whose body won’t—can’t?—get pregnant.

Did I tell you?

The first round of Letrozole didn’t work. All those pills. Six vials of my blood. A urine test.

And I didn’t even ovulate.

Soon I’ll start on my double dosage, which fellow “TTC warriors” on reddit have assured each other is very normal.

I’m learning far too many acronyms for what should be a natural thing, and I’m afraid it’s only just begun.

12 December

The text came through at 4:34pm yesterday:

“Msg from Dr **** ******: Results have not yet shown ovulation but may indicate it is happening. Please repeat blood test on Monday to see.”

I’m feeling the faintest bit of hope for the first time in ages.

Okay, I won’t lie to you: a lot of hope, which is scary.

There’s still a minuscule chance I could ovulate this week, we could find out we’re pregnant the week before Christmas, and get to tell everyone…

I’m praying, even though I haven’t prayed much in ages, so it feels wrong to ask for something now.

But please, Papa, will you give us a baby?

I really hope future me gets to read this with a smile.

17 December

I waltz into the lab and barely feel the prick of the needle. I hear my blood squirt against the side of the vial, which makes the nurse and I both giggle.

I’ve got a little green bruise in the crook of my right elbow now; a little mark that tells those in-the-know she’s done this before.

//

I read the text that pops up while I’m in a meeting:

“Unfortunately, you did not ovulate this month, so please start over, and this time, move up to three times the original dosage.”

I swallow hard, smile still firmly in place, and try not to let the tears leak out.

//

Did I tell you?

I got so depressed last month that I thought about hurting myself, briefly.

I couldn’t smile and everything in me felt heavy. The tears flowed when I willed them not to, and I’d be ferociously scrubbing them away before jumping on work calls.

It’s this dirty secret we’re carrying alone, and I feel the stab each time someone asks when we’re going to start a family.

Oh yeah, we should really get on that, I want to say sarcastically, as though it’s something we’ve forgotten to do, something we have complete control over.

//

There is no warning label on the back of the packet, so I look up the possible side effects that are more than a page long.

I don’t have to scroll very far to read: This medication carries an increased risk of depression, self-harm and suicide.

I recall the instructions from our specialist; three times the original recommended dose.

What if this takes all of me?

Friends, this is part two of a three-part series I’ll be sharing over the next few weeks. You can read part one here.

If you’d like to be the first to hear when part three is published, you can drop your email address below; it’s completely free and a way to let me know you’d like to keep reading bits and pieces! And don’t worry, I won’t be bombarding your inbox; you’ll only hear from me when there’s something new to share. Thanks for your support.

On a final note, I want to acknowledge that fertility is a very personal, sensitive topic, and I would hate for anything I share here to cause pain for anyone reading; so if that’s a particular struggle for you, please know that I see you, and you’re in my prayers. Reach out if you ever need.

—Maddy x

p.s. I’m much more active over on Instagram, so if you’re wanting to connect and get random, unpolished snippets of life and all its in-betweens, you can find me there as @maddygracehope, or click the button below!

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