I am a mom who wanted kids—ached and pained, kicked and screamed, got poked and prodded, and, worst of all, was told that at the tender age of thirty-five that I was of an advanced age for child bearing. I didn’t want to be thirty-five when I first got pregnant, I wanted to do it right out of the marriage gate, when I was twenty-eight. But things did not happen that way and after years of trying, I finally found myself sitting in a fertility clinic, picking a suitable sperm donor, and having my fibroids and eggs measured to see if I was still able, in my now elder years, to become pregnant and bear children.
I was given a bleak outcome—small eggs, big fibroids, thirty-five years old, IUI with Sperm Donor. There was not a great deal of hope from the doctors side of things, but after so many damn years of wanting kids, I was not going to be discouraged. I left high with high hopes, and went to the pharmacy to fill my prescription for clomid, wait for my sperm to arrive, and my monthly cycle to kick in.
Two tries and success was ours.
PREGNANT! But it wasn’t long until I felt like something was wrong. The gynecologist told me that I was being a nervous mom. I thought she was full of shit. At five months into the pregnancy, I gave birth, prematurely, on my bathroom floor, and our little girl was stillborn. I was devastated and did the only thing I could think to do—jump back on the fertility train for another ride. The doctors did not want me to try until the autopsy came back telling us what exactly was wrong with our little girl. They knew it was genetic, but wanted to be sure I was not the reason for the genetic default. The other kicker was that my body would not co-operate and I would not stop bleeding. For the next six months, I had numerous ultrasounds and more poking and prodding. YAY! It wasn’t until just recently that I found out I have Von Willebrands Disease, which means that my blood doesn’t clot, so I bleed and bruise more than someone normally should. I still think those six months feel like the longest in my life.
Six months later, we had packed up our house and moved back across the country, from B.C. to Ontario. We missed home and our families. In that time, my husband started having second thoughts about using a sperm donor. He wanted to go back to the specialists and see if anything with his diagnosis had changed. Our original infertility diagnosis was male factor, due to unexplained Azoospermia. I was so pissed . . . AGAIN! My husband, who had finally gotten on board after a long time digesting our infertility diagnosis and looking into all our options, was now back tracking. But what was I going to say? He asked me straight out in the middle of one of my rants, “Don’t you want a baby we have to be created with my sperm?” WTF! Of course I did. Nothing in this world would have made me happier, but we were told rather definitively by the doctor, or rather I was told, “You will NEVER have biological children with your husband.” But love is strong, and I loved him and wanted him to have his peace with it all, as well. I waited another five months, so we could both hear the word “NEVER” again.
The next month was a whirlwind. I found a fertility clinic, purchased more sperm, and signed more paperwork. Got poked and prodded and, again, two tries and I was pregnant. This time a happy healthy baby girl was born. We were finally on the other side of infertility. We had battled it, kicked its ass, punched it in the face, called it bad names, and spit on its entire being. I was thirty-seven when she was born—two years after we first walked into a fertility clinic and nine years from when we got married and I threw my birth control pills out of the window.
I always wanted two kids, and waiting wasn’t an option for us, you know, because I was getting really old now. So, when our little bundle was seven months old, I headed back to the clinic to use up my sperm. The first month I was told I couldn’t even try—my ovaries had been hyper-stimulated. I, at this point, was livid. So, the next month when they told me I should wait again, because I was only producing two eggs and it would be a waste of money and resources, I refused to listen and demanded that we go ahead.
I got my way! Three months later we found out we were having twins, and a month after that we found out that they had both tested positive for Down syndrome. I think my world stopped in that moment. But only for that moment. Did I want to have an amnio? NO! The risk of losing them was higher with twins, and even if they did have Down syndrome, we would be prepared to pull all possible resources and give them everything that was needed. I said it before: Love is STRONG and we LOVED them. I went to thirty-eight weeks pregnant with them and was so big, I couldn’t even fit behind the steering wheel to drive anymore. A smooth, planned c-section and there they were. Boy 5lbs 9oz and Girl 6lbs, and they were perfect.
So, now we were done. I had my babies, I got to experience pregnancy, and we became a family of five. I had three babies all in diapers, and over the next year, I slowly lost my mind. I was put on mommy drugs to calm my anxiety, and regained a great love for white wine. I am now thirty-nine, six days away from turning forty, and my kids are all toddlers who never, ever stop. I am a SAHM and I am tired, frustrated, and bored! BUT, as it is constantly pointed out to me when I complain about any of it, “Isn’t that what you wanted??????”
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