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Ten years before I decided to have a baby, I was told there would be complications.
I was diagnosed with Endometriosis and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) and my doctors had concerns about egg quality, anovulation and other infertility issues, so after a year of not getting pregnant, my husband and I started Artificial Reproductive Treatments (ART).
Even though my health insurance was excellent and covered IVF with a small copay, multiple treatments failed. I developed ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (OHSS) and was forced to spend weeks on bed rest to reduce the amount of fluid in my abdomen, which meant taking weeks off work.
I had insurance and my employer was very understanding and supportive, so I didn’t have to worry about losing my job or racking up medical debt, but I began to dread the reality of being childless.
I got pregnant after changing clinics.
In the end, I decided to switch clinics after the first one told me there was nothing else they could do for me. At the new clinic, I had laparoscopic surgery to remove the endometriosis lesions and ovarian diathermy, a procedure that uses a laser on the ovaries to reduce the ovarian reserve in the hope that they will produce fewer eggs but with better quality.
The author worries about what it would take, financially and physically, to have another child.
Provided by the author
Two cycles later, while waiting for my period to begin my third egg retrieval, I found out I was pregnant. With fear and joy, we carefully navigated a surprisingly complication-free pregnancy. After nine long, anxious months and four tumultuous hours of labour, we met our son.
But in the recovery room, my husband and I began sharing our fears about how we would need to structure our life to be able to have another child.
I’m worried about having another child
I know this isn’t just my reality: I’ve spoken about my fears about another child with people in the various support groups I attended throughout my fertility and pregnancy journey.
The fear of another child is the fear of going through the trauma again. It’s weighing the benefits of a sibling and the joy of having another child to love against the harsh reality of infertility and its treatment. It’s figuring out how far I’m willing to go with ART again and what my limits are. The effects of my surgery usually last for 2 years, but it’s been more than 9 months already.
It feels unfair to me, having recently given birth – my body wasn’t my own for two and a half years of treatment and nine months of pregnancy – but I’m now trying to come up with a plan.
Then there’s career uncertainty. Will I get fertility benefits? After my maternity leave, I switched to remote work and lost the amazing health insurance that changed our lives. Now I have insurance, but I don’t know how long it will last. I constantly wonder if I missed my chance to have another child.
In the fertility community, trying to have a baby means organizing your entire life around that goal — which can mean living with medical debt, moving to another state, or changing jobs or careers — and there’s never a guarantee that you’ll have a child.
The other day I was thinking about vacationing with my son six years from now, and an imaginary sibling chasing him on the beach. But today I’m helping my son stack cups, watching his eyes as he flies happily between his colorful toys and me. In a few months, I’ll be calling the clinic again, and navigating an uncertain path.