We struggled for several years to get pregnant, and at last conceived through fertility treatments. The whole infertility process was very painful for me. My husband took each test in stride, no big deal. I, however, balked at every blood draw, every ultrasound, every unnatural attempt to help us get pregnant. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I wanted another baby desperately, but not this way.
At last we began our first round of treatment. I dutifully drove to the doctor for each blood draw to track my ovulation and fertilization. That first round was a disappointing failure. I had not ovulated at all. The upside was that I didn't have to go through the humiliation of artificial insemination.
Our fertility specialist wanted to move quickly on to more drastic treatments, but again I resisted. In the end, we agreed to try the original treatment once more, this time using the name brand drug.
At the first ultrasound, it was obvious that instead of ovulating, I had developed a cyst on my left ovary. My doctor ended my treatment, sending us home to “have fun trying” until my next cycle started. At that time he would put me back on birth control to shrink the cyst before we could try yet again to conceive.
We went home that day feeling defeated. I was embarrassed by the constant testing and my inability to do that one thing that I believed I was made to do: create life within my womb. My husband was undaunted by yet another failure. He was perfectly willing to keep trying. He wanted another baby as much as I did. So we did the only thing we could think of. We had fun trying.
Then we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Nearly two months passed before I finally convinced myself to take a pregnancy test. I couldn't bear to watch the indicator, proving yet again that I had not been able to conceive. When I finally got up the nerve to check the results, my hands shook. Was it for real? How could it be?
From there, I had blood drawn every other day, and my progesterone levels rose with incredible speed. I scoured the internet, looking for some kind of infallible proof that not only were we pregnant, but that we could be having twins!
At last I lay there, staring in disbelief at the ultrasound screen. My husband grinned from ear to ear. Despite the fact that my one cyst had developed into a trio shaped like a Mickey Mouse head, we had most definitely conceived. As we joked with the doctor about our “twin” suspicions, he casually said, “Oh you're not having twins. You're having one, two...” and he paused. “Four babies.” He finally announced.
I laughed at the absurdity. Quadruplets, I thought. Wouldn't that be funny? He turned the screen and pointed to four very distinct embryos. My husband didn't care how it happened. He was so proud of himself that day. We couldn't stop hugging each other. We stayed up late talking about all the things that would change for us. Four little car seats. Four little beds. Four little high chairs. Four little babies. We felt so incredibly blessed, and at the same time, we were terrified.
At our eight week ultrasound, we learned that two of the embryos had simply stopped developing and disappeared. I felt numb when we left the office that day. Two of my little babies, here for such a tiny part of my life, now gone forever.
Once the shock of our loss began to ease, we were able to talk about life with twins, and eventually we felt a little relief. But I worried about my last two babies. I was constantly sick. I couldn't eat anything. I was tired all the time.
At our twelve-week ultrasound, I couldn't wait to see those two tiny little heartbeats fluttering. But that was not to be. Baby B had stopped developing after our eight-week check-up.
Three of our four babies had died. I felt their loss as if I had known them a lifetime. They were a part of me, a part of my husband. He cried with me that night, mourning the loss of our tiny baby, too young to even know if it was a Meghan or an Ethan.
Only one heart beat in my womb now, and I was filled with terror. What if this last little one died as well? How would we cope? How could I go on?
Eventually, we made it to our sixteen-week check-up. Soon we learned that Caitlyn was developing perfectly. I was no longer considered high-risk.
I still have the 3D image of her on my dresser. Her perfect little eyelids closed in sleep, her hand fisted against her cheek. I used to hold that ultrasound image, afraid that it would be the only thing I would get to hold of my dear little angel. Now I hold it to remind of how lucky we are to have our little miracle baby.
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