Chasing Rainbows

From the moment Paul and I became husband and wife we tried becoming parents. I had been diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) during college so we knew that getting pregnant would be difficult but not impossible. We also knew we wanted to adopt and in that route became foster parents.

Imagine if you will, six months after starting the fostering process you welcome a beautiful little girl into your home. You love her as if she were your own. You imagine that one day she would be. After a few months of loving her unconditionally you receive a phone call that she will be moving to her grandmother's house the next morning. You are devastated. God was ready, but you were not.

A year passes since you were married and still no baby. You decide to see an OB who runs some tests and confirms PCOS. You are given a magical pill that would hopefully help solve your problem and give you a baby.

It worked! You finally see the two pink lines you had so longed to see. WE WERE PREGNANT. This time you are able to be the wife with the cute announcement to her husband. You place a giant cinnamon roll in the oven with the sappy “We’ve got a bun in the oven” phrase written in icing. You tell your husband you are baking something and if he could please take it out of the oven. Instant love, excitement and tears follow. You are ready!

Unfortunately, life isn’t always sunshine and unicorns. You begin to spot and then bleed. The doctor on call assures you that you are fine, but in your heart you know differently. You head to the emergency room and wait for hours to be seen. Each trip to the restroom brings more and more blood. While waiting in a room surrounded by strangers, you cry and cry. You know. The phlebotomist looks at you with pity as she draws your levels, tears strolling down your face. Your hubby texts your families asking for prayer. Their responses, “I didn’t know she was pregnant”. You were so new into this pregnancy, you all hadn’t told anyone.

A doctor walks in, does the exam, and acts like this is all routine. You wait in the room, wearing only a gown, crying. The doctor comes back in and announces you have had a “spontaneous abortion”. There must have been a look of horror on your face when he said abortion because he quickly says it’s just the proper name for a miscarriage. You’re told with fertility meds this can happen. You’re playing with nature. You are left in the room to cry and fall apart with your spouse. Our baby was gone. God was ready, but you were not.

You walk out of the hospital after it had been storming heavily and see a double rainbow. You are reminded of God’s promise and hold onto hope.

You foster a sibling group again but with the mindset that they would go home too. They did. God was ready and this time so were you.

You try the magical pill again and much like the first time, it worked! This time you announce to your hubby by placing the test in a bag with a card and the movie What to Expect When You're Expecting. Instant joy again but this time also a hint of fear. You are very cautious as the weeks go by and don’t announce to anyone except your best friend and a coworker. You were waiting for the infamous 13 week mark of security.

You go to your 10 week ultrasound appointment and are shocked to find out you are expecting twins! Immediately you are reminded of the double rainbow the day of the miscarriage and know everything will be okay. Your babies will be fine.

Thirteen weeks comes the same week as Thanksgiving and you use this opportunity to announce to everyone that you are thankful for your little blessings. You are having two babies!

You go in for your gender ultrasound at 18 weeks with only the worry of how you are going to plan the reveal. The sonographer says both babies are boys. You had wanted a boy and a girl but hey, they are both miracles. She asks if you’ve been cramping or bleeding. You say no. She says she has to go get the doctor. You figure that’s weird but whatever.

The doctor comes, does another ultrasound, asks the same questions then goes on to tell you that you are dilated and he’s surprised you haven’t gone into labor. He then goes on to say that they may be able to do a stitch but you need to go to the hospital immediately.

Somehow you just don’t fully comprehend the severity of it all. Multiple doctors come in, including your regular OB and they explain all of these things to you but still it doesn’t all sink in. Your parents have made it to the hospital and are freaking out, stressing about everything and calling every major city around to see if you can be transported. You are tired and tell them to stop, you are fine. The babies are fine.

Until it’s New Years morning, your water breaks and you are not fine. Your OB comes in shortly after midnight, after seeing the firework display with her family. You think she looks so pretty in her regular clothes. She holds your hand as the on call doctor decides it’s time to deliver Baby A. You get one last ultrasound and see Baby A waving at you. You don’t have a copy of that ultrasound picture but it is forever burned into your memory because you knew that was your baby waving goodbye. You deliver your firstborn son, Elijah Rey Victor, at 19 weeks gestation and he lives for 9 precious minutes. Your biggest regret is not holding him immediately after he was born because you wanted the doctors to finish up down there so that you could focus on your baby. He passed alone on a cot rather than in your arms. That is the biggest regret you will ever carry. God was ready, but you were not.

The next few hours become hazy. You have so many different medications running throughout your system that you drift in and out of sleep. You remember vague moments of seeing your husband hold your son in his hands. Of your parents crying as they hold him too. You remember the chaplain coming to the door and seeing his shoes under the screen but your family asks him not to disturb you and they set up the funeral home arrangements. They were ready, but you were not.

Twenty-four hours pass and you are told that a specialist in a bigger city has agreed to take your case and stitch your cervix in the hopes of keeping Baby B alive. A helicopter soon takes you to this big city and the surgery is done. The baby is okay and so are you.

For the next month you go back and forth between home and hospital bed rest. At 23 weeks you are admitted back into the hospital for contractions. During the next week you see so many doctors; maternal fetal medicine specialists, neonatologists, so on and so forth. You are given all the odds, none of which are in your favor. But you carry on and choose life. At 23 weeks 6 days you go into labor after you and your baby develop an infection and are rushed into an emergency c-section. On February 6, 2013 your second son is born; Jeremiah Dewitt Victor, at 1lb 2.3oz.

He’s alive. You’re alive. He is your miracle. For 5 months you go through the emotions of the NICU roller coaster. You watch this tiny fighter grow stronger and stronger. You have good days, you have bad days, but you always hope. You watch as this sweet life begins to develop rolls, cries, and forms a personality. You stay at the Ronald McDonald House in a city that is new to you but it quickly becomes home. The nurses become your family. You are home.

Five months pass and you hesitantly agree to do a surgery that should allow Jeremiah to be released from the NICU shortly afterwards. You worry all throughout the procedure, fearing the worst. The surgeon calls you and your husband to a side room and tells you the surgery was successful and everything is okay. You get the carseat ready and order the custom crib bedding. You are FINALLY going home.

Two nights later your cellphone rings in the middle of the night. The nurse says to come quickly your baby has taken a turn for the worst. You are so confused as you just saw your baby at midnight and your concerns had been addressed as nothing major. You rush into the nursery to find them resuscitating your miracle baby. You are in shock. They diagnose your baby with NEC, something uncommon in a baby his age. They perform emergency bedside surgery. Your entire family is put in a special room that is supposed to be for families graduating out of the NICU. You had so desired to be in that room but under different circumstances. One of his nurses comes crying into the room saying he survived the surgery. Relief rushes over you. You go and see your baby; his intestines are now in a bag outside of his body. It’s shocking but he’s alive. You decide to grab a snack since you haven’t eaten all day. At the cafeteria you are called back and leave your food. You walk in to find doctors performing CPR and your baby flatlines. You stand there unable to move. Then a heartbeat starts again. He’s alive. You go to his bedside and are told there is nothing more they can do. You make the hardest decision of your life. You sign the forms taking him off life support so that you can hold him as he passes, because he will pass. You hold him in your arms, crying and telling him it’s okay. You love him and it’s okay. You feel his last breath and at that moment it feels as if your last breath has gone with him. God was ready, but you were not.

You have a funeral, burying not one but both of your sons. You lock yourself in your room for months, crying in agony. Your family and everyone else worry for your health. You died that day along with your son. You are no longer the same person; you never will be the same person. You hate God and question your faith. You lose your faith.

Months pass and your husband begs you to attend church with him. You physically go but you are not spiritually there. You think it is all a bunch of lies and hypocrisy. God was ready, but you were not.

Eventually, you decide to work part time and get out of the house. You start going out into the world. You work to distract yourself. You start to become a person again. You willingly attend church.

Your arms still ache for a baby. They feel so empty with loss. You research everything on an incompetent cervix and find a surgeon to permanently close your cervix. You put yourself through invasive surgery that not all doctors recommend because you’d rather go all out than wait and see if you lose another baby. You start trying for a baby again. You think you are ready, but God was not.

You take the magical pill but this time there is no magic. Month after month you get a negative test. Month after month you see the baby announcements on social media. What’s left of your heart breaks a little more each month with each negative test and with each new announcement.

You take in two more foster children. For weeks you debate on sending them to another home. You feel like you can’t do this. It’s not your son, not your Jeremiah. But you keep on because you know they need you and in a way you need them. 1 ½ years pass and they have become your whole world. You love them like you never thought you could and you imagine your future with them. You are told you will be able to adopt them and your dreams are coming true. These are your rainbows. These are your babies.

Until they’re not. Until 2 weeks before court you find out they’re going home against many recommendations. Your heart breaks and they go home. God was ready, but you were not.

During this year and a half of fostering you decide to go to a reproductive endocrinologist (fertility specialist). You give your history and break down into tears. You meet the sweetest doctor, Dr. Balthazar, who, in spite of it all gives you hope. You do tests and more tests. They draw blood samples, your hubby gives a sample of his best soldiers, and you allow them to inject dye to look at your tubes.You are diagnosed with unexplained secondary infertility. Of course you would now be the 1 in 7 to have infertility. Why not? You were the 1 in 4 to lose a pregnancy or have infant loss. Three times. Of course you’d now be infertile, the odds are never in your favor. But somehow you have hope.

You begin with more invasive fertility treatments, none of which are covered by your insurance. You want a baby so badly that you willingly inject your stomach for about a week and then have your mom inject your bottom with the “trigger” shot. Lets just say it’s not a tiny needle. You then go into the doctor’s office where your hubby gives his contribution to the lab and you are “inseminated”, hoping that this catheter will deliver everything to its desired location. You and your husband hold hands. Not quite how you want to conceive a baby but hey, you may as well try.

You do this 4 times. You fail 4 times. You give up. Yet you hope.

More pregnancy announcements are made. People who started trying waaaaaaay after you are now magically pregnant. People who weren’t even trying are pregnant. People whose first children were born when you had your son are now having their second baby. You are left with an empty womb and a couple thousand dollars of money lost. You find out people are complaining about being referred to as “mom” at appointments rather than by their name. You would give anything to be called “mom” so you decide it’s time to hide all the pregnant people from your page. With each new announcement comes a new “friend” hidden. It helps, a little.

You discuss your next option with your wonderful reproductive endocrinologist and find that the next step is IVF. Immediately you wonder how in the world you are going to come up with $20,000. That is not the kind of money you have lying around, especially with student loans. You wonder about your stance on IVF to begin with. You believe life begins at conception so how do you do this without making a bunch of embryos? You take a year off from trying and decide to focus on your foster babies, only now they’re going home.

Somehow, a month before your foster babies are returned, you are contacted by a birth mom looking to place her baby for adoption. You are skeptical and hesitant but you continue the communication because you hope. You were contacted on a Monday and by that Saturday a beautiful baby boy is born. February 6, 2016 you become parents to a little boy you never saw coming, on the 3rd birthday of Jeremiah. You are in shock and in awe of God’s faithfulness. You have your forever baby, Micah Isaiah Victor.

Your foster babies are returned to their mom and you now have a newborn. You decide to go back to your RE to have exploratory surgery for definitive answers as to why you have not conceived. It has now become more about finding out why then actually worrying about having a baby, because you already have your adopted rainbow baby and are happy.

Your doctor does the surgery and discovers there is a lot of scar tissue from everything that your body has endured. You are prepared for IVF to be your only option but then your doctor starts talking about a new procedure that only one other clinic has done and that was just now FDA approved. Your clinic has decided to run their own trial and offers you the opportunity to be their first candidate. You quickly jump at the opportunity to be their guinea pig. God was ready, and so were you.

You have a newborn at home but this is an opportunity that you cannot pass. You order your meds and find you have many many more shots this time. Big shots. Painful shots. You start with the tummy ones, they sting but they aren’t too bad. It’s more the fact that you are injecting your own stomach that makes it difficult. You take your pills as well. You go to weekly sonogram appointments where you and the dildo looking sonogram wand get to know each other very well. Your ovaries are measured, as are all of the follicles you are growing. It’s finally time for the trigger shot, you know, the one on your bottom that is huge. After that you can expect to ovulate many eggs, you definitely feel your ovaries ovulating and it feels like a kick to the stomach, but you’re excited because you know its working. You have hope.

You go in for your retrieval. They put you under, and with a long needle take out all of the mature eggs that they can find. Normally a woman ovulates one egg per month, but with fertility meds that number varies. You end up with 17 eggs. The embryologist picks the 10 best and he and the doctor place them in the new Invocell device along with the best soldiers your husband could give. The Invocell is placed back inside of you and you are woken up from the procedure. You’re a lightweight so your anesthesia feels horrible, but you are very careful because you know you have to incubate your babies now. You continue to hope.

Five days later you go back, fully awake this time, for them to take out the device and transfer any embryos back in. You are awake for all of it. What if no embryos formed? What if it failed again? You wouldn’t be surprised, as your body seems to fail all the time. In fact you kind of expect it to fail. Thank God for Valium. Your hubby is in a different room looking at a screen but not able to hold your hand. It's kind of weird knowing your baby is being conceived without your husband in the room, it's definitely not how you plan any of this. After the doctor takes out the Invocell the embryologist calls out that he found an embryo. Yay, at least one baby. You wait patiently as he keeps looking. In the end he shouts out that he found 2 embryos total. Both seemed to be high grade and both are immediately placed back inside your uterus where you hope they will implant.

Thus begins the dreaded two week wait along with daily progesterone oil injections that are quite a bit painful. You bruise and knot all over your bottom and eventually you are injecting into bruised spots. You continue this daily for 9 weeks because you want a baby so badly. Not just for you and your hubby, but now to give a Micah a sibling.

You are not a patient person so you start testing 4 days after the transfer even though your blood test won’t be until a week later. To your surprise you see a faint positive on your first test. You convince yourself that it’s too soon so it must be remaining fertility meds in your system. You test twice a day each day after and your tests are all positive. It worked!

You go to the clinic for your blood work and it confirmed what you already knew. You are pregnant. Your body didn’t fail this time. You have your rainbow.

You go in for your first ultrasound appointment with your RE. You see where one sack is forming and another may be questionable. You at least have one baby. You go back the following week and find that only one embryo took but it is definitely a baby. Your husband swears he sees the baby squirm. You feel relief.

At this point only your parents and your inlaws know. Nobody else. You don’t want to break this safe little happy bubble. Plus you know about loss, you don’t want to have to announce another one if it happens.

Ten weeks comes and goes and you finally graduate from your fertility clinic. You are excited because this is such a big step but you’re also sad because you love your RE so much and know you will miss her.

You start spotting. Panic sets in. Flashbacks to your miscarriage arise and you frantically call your fertility clinic. The on call doctor agrees to see you even though they are closed and you go in for a sonogram. You’re crying. Until you see it. You see the baby moving on the monitor. You see and hear the heartbeat. You and baby are fine. Everything is okay. You know you look like a crazy lady worried about spotting but your fertility clinic knows your history and treats you with such kindness and reassurance. You leave relieved.

13 weeks comes and goes and you announce to all of your closest family and 3 of your friends at Micah’s adoption party. If you lose this baby these are the people you will be surrounded by, plus you are starting to show so you feel okay telling these select few individuals. You welcome them into your bubble of safety. You’re still not ready for the rest of the world to know.

You cheat and find out the gender early. You hold a gender reveal like you have always dreamed of having with your select safety group. You are overjoyed but still enjoying the secrecy of it all.

Secrets keep it close. Personal. It makes it feel safer even though it may sound silly. You worry about everything. Every ache, every spot, every little hint of something makes you worry. You know what can happen. Yet you have hope.

You hit 17 weeks and there is no hiding this sweet bump anymore. You’ve been on the news in your city and on your fertility clinic’s website because you were the first patient in San Antonio to have conceived a child this way. You have another interview at the fertility clinic with a Mexican podcast group who would like to hear all about your experience. You see your beloved fertility doctor again and she gushes over your baby bump. You hug and catch up.

She asks if you are calmer now that you have passed the first trimester. You respond with the truth, you’ll be calm once you hit 24 weeks gestation, which is when a baby is considered viable. She smiles her sweet smile and says, “only someone with your history would say that”. You smile knowing your reality and that you are super paranoid but you are also happy. Happy that this baby is going strong. Happy that you see your OB one week and your high risk doctor the next. Happy that you are monitored so closely that this baby has such a great chance at life.

Happy for your rainbow.

Without storms there wouldn’t be any rainbows. Ours is due March 11, 2017!