Putting my own oxygen mask on first

As I’m still reeling from the physical and emotional effects of our first round of in vitro fertilization (IVF), I’m readying to begin round two this week.

And while I’m changed on both the inside and outside from this taxing procedure, I’m also living in fear of politicians trying to take away this last chance we have at having a pregnancy to start our family.

As I explained in a previous column, IVF is a procedure that involves fertilizing an egg with sperm outside the body. In order to get many eggs for them at once, the woman undergoes a buffet of oral and injected medications as well as a host of vitamins.

Half my fridge was occupied with injectable meds needing to be kept cold. For 10 days, I took up to 12 oral medications a day and was poked with a needle up to four times.

An injectable medication is administered every morning and evening in the stomach. My husband Patrick works nights and afternoons, but every day at 7 a.m., he was up to give me my shot before going back to sleep. The evening shot is administered at about 8 p.m. As a sports reporter, that means this time around will be smack dab in the middle of a baseball game.

I’ve had to have Patrick give me a shot in the middle of a public street next to our car. I was leaving track meets early so I could get home in time for my shot.

I had to go to Des Moines six times in 10 days for transvaginal ultrasounds and lab work. I drove two hours round trip to get a needle in the arm and a ultrasound wand— well, I’ll let you figure where that goes on your own.

I don’t have nice poofy veins like Patrick. Mine are small and wiggly. My arms were covered in bruises as phlebotomists poked me multiple times to try to find a spot to get blood.

In this time, your body needs to make room for all these extra eggs. Normally you only grow one each month. I grew 14 during my cycle. Your ovaries are typically the size and shape of an almond. During IVF, they can grow to the size of tennis balls. I bear the proof of this change on my body as my stomach is now home to angry red stretch marks.

After injecting the “trigger shot” meant to start ovulation, the bloating becomes extremely uncomfortable. You know when you eat way too much food and feel so full you could burst? It’s like that, all the time.

Not to mention, normal estrogen levels for premenopausal women is under 60 pg/ml. During IVF, it can get as high as 4,000. Fortunately, I only got to the mid-2,000s, but I was still very emotional. I’m talking crying at work over which photo to use in the paper.

My embryo retrieval procedure netted 11 mature eggs. From there, six were fertilized. Up until this point, we were excited with our results. Now we needed to see how many would make it to the five-day blastocyst stage. But none of them did.

When we arrived on the morning of the transfer procedure, we were told the best we had were two morula. Morula, Latin for mulberry, is a few stages before blastocyst. Since they typically develop better in utero than out of it, they said they would be transferring both that day.

For a few weeks, I laughed and Patrick panicked at the thought of twins. From transfer date is the dreaded wait and see. After nine days, I saw a faint second line. I couldn’t believe it. The blood work confirmed what we hoped — I was pregnant.

I carried our little one for nine weeks before an ultrasound showed no heartbeat. The dream came crashing down around us as we navigated our second miscarriage in a row.

I had friends travel five-plus hours to be with me. Larry stepped in at the last moment to attend the Drake Relays in my place. Erin brought coloring books and held my hand as I went through the contractions. Patrick was at work when it officially happened.

Everyone in the office picked up the work I left behind as I attempted to heal physically and emotionally. I’m extremely fortunate to feel comfortable talking about this because it truly helps.

A big reason I share my experience is because there are many women and couples who go through this same experience silently. She wakes up one morning to a body she doesn’t recognize and what feels like a gaping cavern in her chest.

As I begin my second round, there is one thing I plan to differently, and it can be described using a phrase air travelers hear often. “Put on your own oxygen mask before helping others.”

I have a hard time saying no to things — extra work, extra travel, paying for something. Sometimes I’m not even asked, I just volunteer because I feel like I should. But I’ve found that trying to give from an empty tank hurts everyone. I fail to complete something I said I would or I go to see someone only to be stressed about what I should be doing instead.

I’m fearful for what another round will bring, but I know I have to put myself, my physical and emotional health, first if I want to make it to the other side.