When we first got married, my husband, Jon, and I figured we’d eventually have three children, but agreed to wait and enjoy life with just the two of us for a good long while. During those first couple years, my periods went from problematic to extremely painful, and then debilitating, culminating in an embarrassing incident in the mother’s room at church where an investigator found me writhing on the floor and throwing up from pain. Visitors welcome! This was a turning point for me though, because once I was recovered enough for Jon to walk me to the car, the Primary president (who was the first person the investigator found when she ran for help, whom Jon had to talk down from calling an ambulance) kindly insisted, “This isn’t normal; it doesn’t need to be like this,” and urged me to see the reproductive endocrinologist who had helped her daughter with similar symptoms. I made an appointment the next day.
He believed me. I cried in his office! (I am not a public crier.) I was just so grateful to be validated instead of having my pain be downplayed again. (I had been told by more than one doctor to just take Midol.)
An ultrasound showed the tissue buildup, cysts, and inflammation indicative of endometriosis – not so severe as to warrant surgery right away, but it needed to be monitored and managed. He was willing to write me a prescription for vicodin, if I wanted it, but recommended that I do one better and just eliminate the source of the pain instead. This was the first I had ever heard of continuous birth control. Not a special type of birth control, mind you; just taking my birth control continually, skipping the sugar pills. No periods (the break between birth control cycles isn’t a true period, anyway), no internal bleeding, no additional tissue build-up, no pain. This was life-changing for me, and probably saved what little fertility I had left. He also said that if and when Jon and I decided to have children, to see a fertility doctor right away – don’t waste time going off birth control for the generally-recommended year before seeing a specialist. It was unlikely, in his opinion, that I could conceive naturally, and each passing cycle would continue to reduce my fertility and cause unnecessary pain.
Years passed. We moved overseas, and then to Phoenix. I never felt that pull to motherhood that I’d heard so much about – it seemed like someone had forgotten the biological clock when my skin suit passed through the assembly line. I wanted to want to have a baby…but that was it. There were even times that I thought, perfectly reasonably, that my lack of desire probably meant I was going to die young.
Once we had been back in Arizona for a year, though, we decided to see a fertility specialist, mostly because we’d been married for 7 years at that point and it seemed like our time was up (we were Mormon, after all!). We saw Dr. Behera at the Fertility Treatment Center for 1, then 2, then 3, then 4 rounds of intrauterine insemination. I grew increasingly upset with each failed cycle, but was keenly aware that my emotions stemmed from the money we were wasting, not from the elusive positive pregnancy test.
After our last round, the doctor explained that based on my bloodwork, which showed my eggs to be disproportionately old and dying like mayflies (my words, not hers), and the failed IUIs, she didn’t see the current route working. IVF was the next step. We didn’t have the money for it then, even with my parents offering to pay for part, and I wasn’t certain I wanted to do it at all. How can you justify that much money, and that much emotional capital, if you don’t desperately, desperately want a baby? If you’re not actively mourning your lack of children?
And so several more years passed. During this time, I think I scared Jon by shifting the conversation away from “when, eventually” and hinting more toward “maybe we don’t…?” Up until this point, we had completely been on the same page, kids being some vague future concept, nothing pressing. We hardly ever talked about it, though. I think we figured that when one of us felt a strong desire, we’d bring it up. But I could tell that me implying that maybe we’d never have kids made him uncomfortable. So I piped down, even though internally I all but made the decision.
Normally I’m an open book, but this topic I kept closed to almost everyone. I treated it like a dirty secret, out of fear of being judged or considered a monster by my predominantly Mormon friends and family members. At the same time, it made me feel squirmy knowing people were pitying me, based on the usual assumptions one makes about an LDS couple married 10+ years and childless. (The twist, of course, was that while the usual assumptions were correct – I was infertile – I was also fine with it, and we had only spent a grand total of 4 months trying to conceive at this point.)
During these many years, I’m sure that people I love tiptoed around their own happy news, worried that it would upset me. I feel some guilt over this, that they may have downplayed their own happiness to spare my feelings. So, to anyone who had a child before me, please know that I never felt anything but joy for you. No bittersweetness. All sweet; no bitter.
A few months before our 12th anniversary, I got a text from my sister-in-law Lianna. She had dreamt that she was carrying my baby as a surrogate. “I know nothing about your situation, and I’m not asking. But it was the most incredible dream ever…and just know that I would do ANYTHING for you. I mean it. Including being a surrogate mother for you.” I was deeply touched, and relayed the message to Jon in a “not-that-we’ll-ever-need-it-but-so-amazing-of-her-to-offer” type of way. Jon was alarmed by the finality he detected in my text. It was time to Talk About Things.
He wanted a child. But, knowing that the burden of IVF, pregnancy, and delivery would entirely be on me, he acknowledged that it was 100% my choice. If he had pressured me at all, I’m sure I would have balked. Instead, we poured out our hearts to each other for weeks, and he helped me through most of my fears. (We made literal lists of our fears. His was short. Mine was very, very, incredibly long.)
The main turning point for me was when I realized we could have one child. I’d had three in my mind for so long – this idea that we’d start our family, and then have to have another, and then have to have another, and we were already beginning late – that it was revelatory to imagine us being a family of 3.
After hours of these conversations and a couple of what I can only, reluctantly, describe as spiritual impressions, I decided to go ahead and try IVF once, for one child. If it happened, it happened, if it didn’t, it didn’t, but at least we wouldn’t be facing regret or resentment later on at not having tried. (I’m aware of the HUGE display of privilege in this statement, to have approached something as cost-prohibitive and emotionally-charged as IVF with this mindset.)
With the decision made, I didn’t see the point in stalling (even though I very nearly changed my mind when 45 won the election). I wasn’t getting any younger, as they say, and meanwhile my eggs were turning to dust. So we went on the most wonderful “last hoorah” trip to New York City where we spent Thanksgiving and my 31st birthday, then returned to Dr. Behera, who now had her own clinic, Bloom Reproductive Institute, to get the mandatory diagnostic tests and procedures taken care of in December before beginning IVF in January of 2017.
After weeks of daily injections, she retrieved 9 eggs from me, 8 of which were mature enough use, all of which fertilized properly overnight, and 4 of which grew into blastocysts over the course of the week. We were excited to have 4 seemingly good-quality embryos, even though it meant we might end up with extras to make decisions about if we achieved pregnancy. More embryos gave us more chances. (There’s only about a 30% success rate per transfer cycle.)
But then we got the results of our genetic testing. A very apologetic RN informed us that three of our embryos were genetically abnormal: “Not conducive to life.” With that phone call, our four chances became one.
The lonesome blastocyst went on ice so my body could have a month-long break before another round of meds, tailored this time for preparing my uterus to receive the embryo. (I joked that we were putting all of our Egg in one basket.) This cycle was exponentially harder on me than the first; it sickened and exhausted me and stripped me of nearly all emotion.
The day before our transfer, I received a belated birthday present from my best friend Christa, who had had no idea we were going through this process. It was a print of Brian Kershisnik’s “She Will Find What Is Lost,” and it was like receiving a blessing from her in the mail.
I was supposed to wait 10 days after the transfer for a blood test, but on the 3rd night I woke up to some moderate cramping and I was almost certain it was our little embryo, nestling in. Two days later (five days post-transfer), I decided to take a home test just to see – reminding myself that it was really early and that a negative at that point didn’t necessarily mean that the IVF didn’t work.
But there it was. A faint but undeniable line that made my head swim and my heart race.
We only had one embryo. And it was her.
![]()
![]()
Claire, did you come a month early because you were eager to meet us? I needed time to choose this journey. But in my defense, I didn’t know you would be you.
![jessie3]()
