IVF Doesn’t Guarantee A Baby

Updates on: My at home testing strategy this cycle, processing my feelings after another failed Embryo Transfer & my advice to others

Last week, I got the heartbreaking news that my most recent FET failed and I would lose our second baby boy in a row.

Here’s the truth:

I knew before my blood test that it would be negative.

I decided this time to take at home pregnancy tests daily between transfer and Beta.

It was my way of checking in with myself, touching base with my body, so my brain knew what my body was doing as it did it.

The first four days, I did not expect any hint of a positive.

I took them as a baseline, knowing it was too early for an implanted embryo to release HCG. I took them, sighed with relief that we were still early in the waiting process, and moved on with my day.

On day 5, I was slightly discouraged by my negative.

I knew other IVF patients who had received faint positive lines 5 days post transfer. I tried to take the timing in stride, and knew that my Beta (& hopes for a positive) were still open and available for 3 more days. While trying to maintain optimism, I couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated. We’d done alllllll of the work. Why wasn’t there any hint of a reward?

On day 6, the discouragement grew with another negative test. I went to my postpartum doula shift with an undeniable ache in my heart. Supporting new families while trying desperately to grow my own was a challenge I didn’t expect to be so emotional.

On day 7, I stared hard at my pregnancy test. I squinted, I looked at it under the light, I looked at it next to the window. I knew in my heart that without a faint line, the game was basically over. I’ve had a few clients who didn’t see a faint line until 8 or 9 days post transfer, but I also know many people already had distinctly positive tests at this point. I felt crushed.

On the 8th day after my FET, I took one last test at home before doing my last PIO shot and heading to the clinic for a blood test to confirm the sinking feeling in my heart.

Instead of watching a second line grow and darken over time, I just stood and stared at a collection of negative pregnancy tests, wondering how exactly we got here.

The positive, so to speak, or upside for me of testing daily, and testing before my Beta was the gradual onset of disappointment, anger, and heartbreak, rather than an onslaught of emotions all at once. It was giving myself time to process what this meant before the finality of the call from our clinic. Before the conversations with our families.

The negative, or downside, was the increase in hope and the deep-seated ache with each progressing day and each negative result.

To be honest, something about taking a home pregnancy test daily worked for my anxiety this time around.

During my last 3 IVF TWW’s, the anxiety and agony of waiting has increased every day, and sometimes even what seemed like every hour for me. This past fall, I’d been sure I was experiencing implantation symptoms and I was absolutely crushed with the negative results on the day of my blood test.

This time around, I knew what my body knew.

I was receiving a report daily, essentially allowing my brain to learn in real time the fate of our sweet embaby.

In the past, I’ve approached this in different ways. I’ve not tested at all, I’ve tested only on the morning of my Beta, and I’ve tested both the day before and the day of my Beta. This method of testing every day is something an IVF friend had recommended, and to be honest, I did feel like it was worked best for me this time around.

I’ve been asked if I’d recommend this at home testing strategy to other IVF warriors - and I would say, it depends on the individual. It depends on the experiences they’d had previously in the periods of waiting, and what their emotional responses were to testing in general. This is something I’d be more than happy to talk about individually, if you’re interested.

Although I’d had some tears along the way during my TWW & with the negative tests on days 6 and 7 post transfer, receiving the official call from my clinic somehow pulled the string to my unraveling.

I gave myself permission to grieve in whatever ways I needed.

After my last failed transfer, I felt extremely emotional. My grief was raw and real and the tears were free flowing. Between hormones and hurt, I felt a sense of loss that I’d never experienced before.

After this failure, I have felt more anger and rage then devastation. My frustration runs thick - why did this happen, could we have prevented it, what do we do next?

This was our last frozen embryo. But, it wasn’t our rainbow baby.

So, the only way to try again is to start from the beginning. STIMS, egg retrieval, PGS testing, FET prep, another transfer, and another agonizing wait.

I’ve walked through this process with other fertility patients as my friends and my clients. I know there’s no right words to say, and there’s no guarantee with any aspect of fertility treatment.

But I had to allow myself to feel the hurt that my losses brought.

To feel the deeply rooted, agonizing frustration.

To emotionally exhale all of the pent up feelings that built up inside.

I had to allow myself to not talk, to not answer the phone, to not answer the questions. To let the likely well-intentioned but in truth incredibly painful commentary roll off my back.

To be honest, friends, it’s not an overnight process.

& this is what I feel is critical to share

Trying to conceive, trying to build or grow your family, it’s incredibly personal. The choices we make, the way we strategize and push forward, the way we process the information, celebrate the wins and grieve the losses - it’s incredibly unique from person to person. There is no right way. There is no right timeline. There are no right feelings.

If you’ve experienced any type of grief or loss, anger or sadness, frustration or devastation about your fertility experience, you’re not alone.

I’m right here with you.

Don’t let anyone tell you what you should feel, or what you should be doing, or how you should be moving forward.

Including yourself.

In the past, I’ve been great about “should-ing” myself.

I should be okay. We knew this wasn’t a guarantee.

I shouldn’t share my grief. Other people have experienced more heartache.

My heart shouldn’t ache so much. I never even saw a positive test.

My body shouldn’t be treating this like a miscarriage. I only carried our son for 13 days.

I should be able to lead my regular infertility support group while grieving my infertility loss. I should be able to celebrate and support others progress even while my heart is broken.

But in truth, these should’s are coming from my own insecurities. My own judgement that my feelings don’t deserve a voice or a space. And friends, I’m not here for that anymore.

This time, I’m standing up. I’m shouting. I’m telling the story in precise detail, because it’s important to me. Because it matters. Because maybe I’ll make someone else feel less alone.

I'd love for you to comment below, or drop me an email & tell me what’s one thing you can stop “should-ing” yourself for?

I’ll be thinking of you,

Amanda