Before I starting writing about Conner and Benjamin, it only seems appropriate that I include a crash course on what happened to get us here in the first place.
Tim and I were married in September of 2011, and shortly after that we pulled the goalie an in effort to get pregnant. We weren't necessarily trying, per se, but we weren't NOT trying. After about a year and some months of baby dancing and peeing on sticks, nothing happened. Something was obviously wrong with my body, otherwise the only other explanation was that I am so old and such a homebody that they have updated sex and no one has told me yet.
We went to see a reproductive specialist. I wasn't ovulating. In fact, my hormones were so craptastic that it was giving me false ovulation tests. We tried four rounds of Clomid, an evil little pill that is supposed to get your ovaries to produce eggs. Again, nothing. No eggs = no babies. Damn you, ovaries! What the hell have you been doing all these years?! We were given the choice to do IUI (artificial insemination) paired with a series of shots to get my ovaries to produce eggs, or to do those series of shots but with IVF (in-vitro fertilization). IUI had a 30% chance of working, while IVF had a 60% chance. My ovaries, in all their polycystic glory, were good candidates for IVF. Um, if we are going to stick needles into my abdomen everyday, let's just jump into the deep end of the pool, shall we?
So begrudgingly, I let my husband stick me with needles every night to get my ovaries to mass produce eggs. I was a chicken (in more ways than one). I let teams of people proke and prod at me. This reproductive team probably saw more of my vagina than my husband did. On days he was working, I drove to whatever fire house my husband was at with my needles and drugs on the passenger seat. Might I add: we do not live anywhere near Storybrooke, Maine (or any other whimsical place that entails fairies and magic. Where is that? Disney World? Hawaii? Hooters?). I was terrified of getting pulled over and being arrested for possession. "Hello, officer," I would say, trying to explain that yes, these drugs were legal and that it was only a coincidence I was driving in the hood. Thankfully, that never happened. Whatever this cocktail of drugs did, it worked.
On August 24th, we transferred two of these little guys into my uterus:
Hello, Conner and Benjamin!
On August 31st, 2013, this happened:
Yes, I am holding the wrong end of the sticks, and yes, I told my dog before I told my husband that we were pregnant.
Being infertile does something to your psyche that shouldn't exist in 2013. It takes away your sense of womanhood. I'm not talking about something that can be fixed with burning your bras in the middle of the street and demanding equality. Your body is meant to carry babies and birth them. And then all of a sudden, a fancy medical degree tells you that your body is not meant to do that without reproductive help. You swim in your sadness for awhile, realize that you're exhausted of treading the water, and give in. In my case, I was excited to get pregnant by any means, but afterwards had this immense guilt that only a mother can have about my babies not being conceived inside me. Regardless, once I saw my babies I knew instantly that they were perfect. Even though they were premature and even though they are gone now, I know that they were meant to be here. So, thank you God and thank you science for IVF (am I allowed to thank them both in the same sentence?).
