The mysteries — and sometimes miracles — of the fertility fight

It was the night before we would find out if our fifth – and likely final – try at an embryo transfer worked, and I sat on the couch with my husband, sobbing into a blanket.

For the 10 days after having the embryo transferred to my uterus, I fluctuated between positivity and negativity; some days I was sure it had worked, but other days I acknowledged it probably hadn’t. That final night, I knew in my gut that we’d failed again.

We’d thrown everything we had at this one: acupuncture, supplements and even a 24-hour trip to Chicago for platelet-rich plasma therapy in which doctors injected certain parts of my blood into my uterus in an effort to thicken its persistently thin lining.

I took a pregnancy test the morning after my breakdown on the couch, and sure enough, it was negative. Doctors caution that at-home tests can be unreliable, and they urge fertility patients to wait for in-office blood tests that are more accurate. But I couldn’t wait. Months before, the news of my first failed embryo transfer had upended my workday, so I began taking my own tests as a way to protect myself from the inevitable devastation of a nurse’s 3 p.m. phone call in the midst of an unrelenting news cycle.

I’m sharing my story to give hope to the many women out there who are struggling. While I was on my journey, it helped me to hear stories of how other women dealt with the pain and how they persevered. I realize my battle was relatively short compared with others’, but I write this to give people hope that miracles do happen.

Saying sorry to my sister

I thought I had done everything right. Years before, at 36 years old, I began exploring my egg-freezing options, something a good friend had done at age 37 and had encouraged me to do as well. Marriage was not even remotely on my radar at the time, nor was any thought of immediately wanting or having kids. My journalism career was my focus. But, I thought, maybe my older self would thank me. So a few months after turning 37, I went through two rounds of egg retrieval, netting and freezing 23 eggs in all.

Just before my first retrieval, I began dating the man I would marry. Freezing my eggs gave me peace of mind: I knew I’d probably want kids someday, but I was so consumed with living my life, chasing my dreams and now dating an incredible man that settling down and having kids was, even in my late 30s, not at the front of my mind.

Adam and I got married in May 2019, just weeks after I turned 39, and we got pregnant on our honeymoon. Yes, it was the dream scenario. And I was completely naïve. I knew I was lucky to get pregnant so easily, but I didn’t realize how many women struggle.

In fact, I’ve since apologized to my sister about my ignorance and insensitivity. The two of us got pregnant at the exact same time, and we now have sons who are just five days apart in age. But her first pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage, and she struggled for more than a year to get pregnant with her first child. Though we shared a pregnancy timeline, I wasn’t sensitive enough to the fact that she was so nervous while I felt relatively carefree.

The birth of my son Lincoln was very difficult. I was induced at 39 weeks, and after four hours of pushing and three attempts to extract my son via vacuum, we proceeded to an emergency C-section. I was disappointed but also exhausted and ready to take any steps necessary to ensure the safe delivery of my son.

I was elated to hold him in my arms, but in the weeks after the birth, I was still bleeding heavily and occasionally passed large clots. During my six-week postpartum checkup, doctors performed an ultrasound and discovered that I was experiencing the effects of retained placenta. Days later, I underwent a dilation and curettage, also known as D&C, a surgical procedure that removes tissue from inside the uterus. After that, I felt fine – or maybe I was just distracted, caring for an extremely colicky newborn – and I thought all was back to normal.

But 18 months later, when we began trying for a second child, I realized nothing was normal.

Time slipping away

I was 41 years old and 100% sure I wanted a sibling for my son. Sometimes, it felt like that desire was greedy: We had one healthy child, some remarked, so why couldn’t we just be happy with that? But I wasn’t.

I remember the pain and sadness I felt when picking up my son from day care and feeling like every other mom there was pregnant with a sibling for their child. In fact, so many moms were expecting that the kids became accustomed to pregnant bellies. At one pickup, a group of kids ran up to me, put their hands on my belly and asked: “Is there a baby in there?” I laughed it off, but inside, I was distraught.

When we weren’t conceiving naturally, I thought to myself: No problem, that’s why I froze my eggs. We began the process to turn those eggs into embryos in March 2022 and soon were elated to learn that my 23 eggs had resulted in 10 healthy and viable embryos. We were convinced that we were on easy street and would be pregnant again in no time.

But while I was undergoing the extensive hormone regimen for our first planned embryo transfer, the doctors discovered that my uterine lining was not improving to the thickness necessary to support a pregnancy. Our June 2022 transfer was cancelled, and I was devastated.

It began to feel like time was just slipping away. I was now 42, my son was almost 2½, and I was wondering if a second child was really in the cards for us.

Then another transfer was cancelled, and by late summer 2022, doctors decided to move forward despite my extremely thin uterine lining.

A first transfer failed, as did the second. Just before the third transfer, my doctor told me that my best chance at a live birth would be through gestational carrier, when another woman works with you to carry the embryo that is biologically yours. I was speechless. That was not the solution I was expecting to hear, especially on the eve of yet another embryo transfer. To have my doctor seem to give up hope without much explanation enraged me.

Sure enough, the third transfer failed.

I frantically began consulting other doctors and other fertility clinics about what might be wrong with me. I decided the easiest and most immediate path forward would be to switch doctors at the same clinic.

I was lucky to have Dr. Michael Levy, founder of Shady Grove Fertility, agree to work with me. His positive outlook and determination to discover what was going wrong was exactly what I needed in that moment. He brought me in for additional ultrasounds and another hysteroscopy, and he tried different hormone regimens — all as we moved toward another embryo transfer.

In those ensuing months, Dr. Levy concluded that my persistently thin uterine lining was probably a result of my postpartum D&C — something I had long suspected but no doctor had been forthcoming about. I’ll never forget when he showed me a picture of the inside of my uterus, taken during a hysteroscopy. It showed a sheet-white interior, not the fluffy pink that should be apparent in the lining.

Dr. Levy suggested increasing my estrogen dosage before the transfers to boost the thickness of the uterine lining. Four months later, and before we underwent a fourth embryo transfer, we found out we were pregnant naturally.

It was baffling and exciting. But a slow heartbeat was detected at the six-week ultrasound, and we ultimately lost the pregnancy at eight weeks, when another ultrasound no longer detected a heartbeat.

We were devastated again, but that miscarriage gave me hope: Maybe my body could support a pregnancy. Still, my miscarriage lasted eight weeks. Even though I had a D&C, some of the pregnancy tissue remained, and yet another procedure was needed to remove it.

The procedures and doctor visits felt endless, but with new hope, we barreled forward to a fourth embryo transfer, despite my thin lining. After another transfer, we got word that it failed and felt despair again.

Several months later, in January 2024, we did one last embryo transfer, knowing that there was no point in continuing to spend the money if that fifth didn’t work. I remember sitting on the bed with my husband just hours before we officially found out about our fifth failure, both of us in agony that we couldn’t make it work despite what felt like endless efforts.

Seeking strength from other women

In early 2024, our despair turned into determination. We still had five embryos remaining, and we began exploring the possibility of a gestational carrier — yes, the same path my first doctor had suggested more than a year prior, at which I had balked. I began seeking out women who also had difficulty. Kristen Welker of NBC News and Rebecca Jarvis of ABC News were tremendous sources of support and inspiration as we tried to decide whether surrogacy was the right path for us.

We interviewed surrogacy agencies and began filling out applications. We were determined to give our son a sibling, no matter the path. We were so fortunate that we had so many healthy embryos still remaining.

My husband was a true rock throughout these years of devastation and despair. Sure, there were late nights in the kitchen when our frustrations resulted in screaming matches. We often wondered whether we should just accept that we would have only one child. But when surrogacy seemed like our only option, we both agreed that we might later regret not taking that route. Even with the staggering $100,000-plus price tag, we talked about taking out loans and cutting costs, hoping that one day, the price we paid would be small compared with the joy of being a family of four.

A true last-minute miracle

In late March 2024, the impossible happened. On Easter Sunday, days away from turning 44, I discovered I was pregnant – naturally.

The next day, in another twist of fate, the surrogacy agency notified us that they had found us a match.

It was hard to get too excited about the pregnancy after all our failures and disappointments. The prospective surrogate agreed to wait a few weeks, until we knew how the pregnancy was progressing.

Incredibly, the baby looked strong from the first heartbeat at six weeks and again at an eight-week ultrasound. I held my breath through the first and second trimesters, only starting to somewhat relax once we hit 30 weeks.

Now, we are just weeks away from welcoming our second son, although fear sometimes creeps in that something could still go wrong.

I still wonder how and why any of this happened. I realize how fortunate I am. It is a true miracle that I got pregnant naturally after years of struggling. I also realize that so many women are not as lucky.

My message to women out there is to hold on to hope. It took three years until we got our miracle. For others, it takes much longer. And for some, it’s a different path entirely.

Even though I ultimately didn’t get pregnant as a result of freezing my eggs at age 37, that decision gave me hope and provided us with options. I recommend it to any woman who thinks they may want children at some point.

Advocate for yourself. If you aren’t getting the answers you deserve from one doctor, switch to another. Speak up when something doesn’t feel right.

And talk to other women about their struggles. Several friends told me about their miracle pregnancies in their mid-40s, and it helped me immensely to hear them. It was all of these shared stories of hope that kept me going.

The fertility journey can be emotionally draining and physically difficult. Although we live in a society where the struggle has often become more difficult after Roe v. Wade was overturned, it is also a society where women have become more transparent and open to discussing their struggles.

Ask questions, seek out women who have gone through difficulty, and never give up on your determination or hope.