Scotch. Two glasses of Glenmorangie, the Scotch that I dove into during my trip to Scotland back in 2010, the year before I met my true love. Drinking two glasses of it, neat, at a nearby bar with my husband, letting it swiftly warm my belly and allowing everything to sit off to the side for the day after hell was confirmed. And now that the Day After is over, the shit really starts to kick in.

A fellow blogger listed the shit she’s been through and I thought I’d do the same to get it off my chest…

  • 2 IUIs in 2015 (one with Femara with a doctor who refused to schedule me for an ultrasound before the procedure, and one with Bravelle which was recalled later that year for efficacy problems)
  • 3 painful scratches/biopsies
  • 2 mock cycles for ERA
  • 6 rounds of DE-IVF, taking valium, vicodin, then eventually Demerol on transfer day (2015-2017)
  • 9 embryos lost to these transfers, one implanting and making it to just under 9 weeks last summer.
  • 10 brutally painful manual cervix dilations.
  • 1 miscarriage, “treated” at home with Misoprostol causing 12 hours of pains that I’m told are similar to early-stage labor.
  • 2 years in the international adoption process, only to see Addis suspend the program with USCIS the day before our 6th DEIVF fail
  • Being told by DHS early on that we’d be a “red flag” if we got pregnant while trying to foster or adopt through them, and that their staff ‘made a lot of accounting errors’ so we’d have to ‘keep on them’ to make sure they did it right (not to mention the massive fraud and abuse scandals the agency has seen in our state).
  • Being told by a local domestic adoption agency at a $500 training that we’d be required to sign regular visitation contracts with the birth parents if we wanted to adopt through them, essentially turning adoption into co-parenting, while at the same time blatantly ignored after two complaints to them when they refused to let me finish the last 4 hours of training on a different day due to my back injury.
  • Having been able to make almost no retirement contributions at the respective ages of 43 and 49 now, because we have spent almost $60,000 on these many, many failed attempts to build a family in so many different ways.
  • Knowing that our combined age is now over 90, we are no longer eligible for international adoption consideration because we’re considered “too old”.
  • My husband working for a company that doesn’t believe in providing any type of infertility treatment assistance, even though it is a disease that affects 1 in 8 and even though they gladly pay for the much-rarer gender reassignment surgery because the latter makes them look good for diversity PR-wise.
  • 40 pounds gained during the fertility treatment process.
  • One lumbar L4/L5 herniated disc injury that has not healed in 5 months, making aforementioned weight nearly impossible to lose, since I can no longer bike, walk/hike even a simple 3 mph, or even bend over and touch my toes for that matter.
  • And now, trying to figure out how we can possibly come up with another $40,000 to afford domestic adoption, and that is if we can find an agency that doesn’t jam Jesus down our throats (most of those types also discriminate against LGBTQ and single parents) and doesn’t treat adoptive parents like sister-wives to the birth parents.

We shall see.

My stomach feels heavy and my heart feels heavier. I am grateful for the comments and emails from people with their support, and for those who’ve asked what they can do? Honestly, anyone who knows me knows it is virtually impossible for me to ask people for things, and during intense grief, the last thing I am capable of doing is thinking of something for you to do for me. I am grateful for whatever people want to do, but I simply do not have the energy to think of something for you to do for me. I’m exhausted in ways I’ve not felt since the loss of my father, and the only thing I know to do is write when the words want to come out, and focus on one of my favorite lines of hope from the movie Cast Away…

“And that’s when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that’s what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I’m back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass… And I’ve lost her all over again. I’m so sad that I don’t have Kelly. But I’m so grateful that she was with me on that island. And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?”

My love and I outside of the Melbourne National Theatre just before he moved here to marry me and start our beautiful amazing life together.



7 thoughts on “Post-mortem

  1. I’ve just been catching up and I’m really sorry to hear about the failed transfer on top of the Ethiopian adoption suspension. It’s all so unfair. I hope that you and Dan will be able to grieve the losses together and then come up with a new plan. I really hope something goes your way soon. Big hugs


  2. Your writing is beautiful… I can feel the sadness in it and I am so so so desperately sorry for your ALL your struggles and hardships. I hope your tide turns soon.


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