The Seven-Year Wait
Theresa struggled for seven years with infertility. In this post, she shares her journey to pregnancy and all the emotions that came with it.
The room is dark and quiet. The ceiling fan is at full speed and I'm under four blankets. Perfection. I fall asleep, not knowing when I'll hear the thump of someone jumping out of bed, the creaking sound of the door and the shuffling of feet into my bedroom.
That someone is the baby I wanted more than anything in the world.
Not a baby anymore, but a newly minted 3-year-old who loves worms, jumping, books and screaming at inconvenient times. She crawls into bed with us and burrows her head into my chest. In the silence, I'm grateful that I can experience this feeling. My husband whispers to me, “We waited seven years for this,” as he squeezes my hand.
Infertility is a common problem in the United States. Some infertility can be explained, like having a hormonal imbalance. In some cases, it's unexplained, or there's a male factor contributing to the issue. My infertility was due to polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). I struggled with weight gain, irregular periods, and infrequent ovulation.
Whatever the reason for infertility, it can be heartbreaking, even after having a baby. Pregnancy announcements and baby showers can still leave a pit in my stomach, something that I can't control. It’s a trauma response from years of being childless and wanting a baby. I'm a pro at hiding my feelings, something I perfected over my seven-year wait. I hate going to my annual gynecology appointments, but not for the reason you think.
While I was struggling to get pregnant, I would be surrounded by pregnant bellies in the waiting room. One time, an excited father-to-be couldn’t stop gushing about his baby that was on the way. He held on to the ultrasound and kept talking loudly to the whole waiting room about how proud he was to be a father.
He would not shut up.
I held my head in my book, reading the same sentence repeatedly. I tapped my foot on the floor so hard my chair was shaking. I wished there was a separate waiting area for women who were experiencing infertility. I bit my lip to stifle the cry when, finally, my name was called. Looking back, I should have just cried in the waiting room.
Screw him.
I was tired. Tired of holding it together. Tired of the negative pregnancy tests. Tired of my period coming, even though I ovulated, had fertility medicine injected into my stomach and had scheduled intercourse at the most inconvenient times, like the day of my mother-in-law’s funeral.
Tired of the up and down emotions — hopelessness during the holidays, guilt at not being happy for babies being born and sadness that I may never get to experience motherhood. Angry at people who have sex and get pregnant when they want. Tired of the people around me celebrating while I suffered in silence.
Thankfully, my family and friends knew not to ask me when I would be starting a family. My mom spread the word to family members and my friends knew about my hormonal issues. I soon learned that I wasn’t alone. Once I was able to talk freely about my situation, the burden became a little more manageable. Therapy and journaling also helped. Over the years, my anger at people who easily became pregnant lessened. I was not them, and they were not me. Everyone is on a different path, and I can’t be upset at someone who lives a different life than me. The only thing I can control is myself.
In 2018, I went to a teaching conference. I was surrounded by more pregnant bellies, including one of my fellow teachers. As I leaned back in my chair, someone pushed into me. “Excuse me,” she laughed. “My baby bump has a mind of its own!” I smiled, giving the Midwest response of “no worries, it’s all good” when it was, in fact, not all good.
Afterward, I had a therapy session and dinner at Panera, where I cried into my bread bowl. I cried for many reasons. The baby bump that attacked me. The fact that I ordered bread as a side to my bread bowl, and I was now bloated. And the realization that no one was going to change my life except me. No one was coming to save me, I had to do it myself. It was time to take control.
The previous year, I had an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist. It was a second-opinion appointment. I had done three rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI), and all had failed. From a financial standpoint, the next option was IVF or in vitro fertilization.
My second opinion doctor at a different hospital, who studied PCOS, didn’t think I was a candidate for IVF. She believed that if I lost 10% of my body weight and reduced stress in my life, I could get pregnant on my own. It took a year, but as I cried into my empty bread bowl, I knew I had to make a change.
After talking to people with PCOS, I decided to go gluten-free and dairy-free. I went into it thinking I was going to add more fruits and vegetables to my diet. Within a week, I lost five pounds, something unheard of when dealing with weight and PCOS. I decided to continue, even during the holidays when baked goods and dairy products were the stars of the show.
Within a few months, I lost 20 pounds — something I had never done before in my life. I was focused on making myself feel better, continuing with my therapy sessions and strengthening my relationship with my husband. We made plans to use our money to travel instead of expensive fertility treatments. We bought rafts to use at a local lake. I turned the room we decided to make into a nursery into my home office. I started thinking less and less about having a baby and focused more on what life would look like if I didn’t become a mother.
One evening, my husband and I watched a documentary series about babies. At the end of an episode, a mom was giving birth. I started crying and told my husband, “I don’t know if that will ever happen for me.” I thought I had wrapped my head around not having a baby, but deep down, I still wanted to be a mom.
Super Bowl 2020 was a fun night for my husband and me. We went to a friend’s party and had a great time. One of my husband’s friends had a daughter who was away at college. She texted him that two students were quarantined after returning from overseas after the holiday break. A throwaway comment at the time, but it was a sign to come in the following weeks. Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, I informed my principal that I would not be returning to teaching for the 2020-2021 school year.
It was time to work on the stress reduction part of the doctor’s advice. While I loved teaching, I was burned out at age 36 and knew I needed a change.
I finished the school year doing online teaching and, at the end of May 2020, thought about my future. Toward the end of June, I missed my period. I messaged my friend Casey and my sister, informing them of my missed period and symptoms. When I usually did this, they would tell me that it didn’t sound like I was pregnant, and they apologized (another Midwestern thing). Then my period would arrive.
This time was different.
They both responded that I should take a pregnancy test. Casey invited me over to take some tests she had since the only one I had was expired. Before heading over, I decided to take the expired test just to see what it said. The word “pregnant” lit up on the screen. Believing that it was not accurate, I headed over to Casey’s house. I took three tests and waited.
The tests were positive.
They were brightly colored, no denying I was pregnant. I was still in shock. I called Casey into the bathroom to confirm. She told me I was pregnant and asked if she could hug me (we were three months into COVID).
As we hugged, I cried. This time, happy tears. But also, I was anxious and scared. I had never been pregnant before. I called my obstetrician’s office and told them my news. I said I was very nervous because I had never been pregnant but had been trying for seven years. They were able to get me in for bloodwork and an ultrasound immediately. My HCG levels were going up, indicating I was indeed pregnant. When I made it to 13 weeks, my obstetrician gave me the go-ahead to announce my pregnancy if I wanted to do so.
My husband and I joked that all it took was a global pandemic to get pregnant. Looking back, I think it was a combination of things: losing weight, reducing stress, and focusing on something other than the thing I wanted most in the world. I understand this isn’t the case for everyone, which makes protecting IVF and fertility treatments vital for people who want to be parents.
I was finally able to make my own pregnancy announcement. We were going to make a funny announcement on Labor Day, but I was too excited to wait. I was done waiting. After informing all our loved ones of our impending parenthood, I made it “Facebook official” on August 25. The words “Baby Klingenhagen coming March 2021” were spelled out on a letter board along with a small onesie. The words “Worth the Wait” were written across it.
A pandemic pregnancy wasn’t ideal. I missed out on sharing my bump with friends and family. I couldn’t have a baby shower and my husband was not able to come to any of my doctor’s appointments. When it was finally the day of our daughter’s arrival, we drove to the hospital, excited, scared and anxious. Twenty-seven hours later, a small baby was laid on my chest. We stared at each other, and I was in awe. I said hello and she closed her eyes.
Baby Klingenhagen was worth the wait.
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