When all of our initial fertility efforts failed, I decided we needed "a plan." I wanted, no...I needed Aaron and I to decide precisely how long we would continue trying, what our next steps would be, and when to set our deadline for calling it quits.
I craved control.
About a year and a half into the process, we contacted a highly-recommended fertility specialist in Kansas City. She confirmed everything we already knew - there was no cause for our infertility, we were "normal." Then, she informed us of our remaining two options: intrauterine insemination (IUI) or in vitro fertilization (IVF). We spoke with her for several hours about both possibilities and ultimately left the clinic disheartened and defeated. Both options felt overly invasive and made it seem as if we were trying to override God's will.
Despite this, we still found ourselves back at the same specialist about four years later, broken and desperate for a solution. We decided to pursue the less invasive of the two options, the IUI. Though our confidence in this plan was shaky at best, we felt it was our only chance at having a baby.
Prior to undergoing the IUI procedure, the doctor required us to undergo many of the exact same tests we had the past. This was routine, and considering all of the negative and normal results we had previously received, we did not expect much new news.
But during my ultrasound, the doctor paused. She flashed a quick, subtle look to her nurse, and in that moment, I knew something was wrong. We finished the tests, and then she led us back to the conference room. When she closed the door and slid the box of Kleenex onto the table, my heart sank and everything I had suspected since the "look" was confirmed.
She found a mass.
My throat closed. The room dimmed and everything started to spin. I asked her to repeat herself... She calmly instructed us to call my ObGyn as soon as we got home. We did, and they scheduled my surgery immediately.
This was not my plan.
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