Sway: prologue

It’s been two years and four months since our final embryo transfer. I came home from work, tossed my phone, and buried myself in my tear-soaked pillow, trying to muffle my sobs before Scott came home. It was beta day. The day we’d find out if our third, and final, embryo transfer worked. I had not taken a pregnancy test, nor did I listen to the voicemail of the results. I didn’t have to because my gut already knew. Scott, on the other hand, remained hopeful. This has to work he said on the phone trying to comfort my gut feeling. 

When he arrived home, he immediately picked up my phone and listened to the voicemail. He walked into the room and did not say a word—he didn’t have to. The sad look on his face said it all. My intuition knew, but this made it real. How could I expect anything different though? Every outcome in our IVF journey has gone contrary to plan thus far, so why would this be any different? 

A wave of courage came over me as I sat up, wiped my tears, and decided we needed to move forward with our second round of IVF. I remember my poem – Sway – that I wrote after the loss of our first embryo transfer. Words that lifted me in a moment of weakness, and reminded me of the resilience I’d need to prepare for another round.

I emailed my nurse and asked to proceed. Oddly enough, I never heard back. The follow-up phone call I was promised by the doctor never came, either.

Within a matter of days, feelings of despair I became familiar with took over. The memories of defeat, the feelings of depression, and the lack of joy surfaced. The silence from our nurse and doctor felt like a sign, and as despair crept back in, I found myself searching for meaning in the silence. 

A thought surfaced and suddenly everything changed. Why would I willingly go through IVF again if this doesn’t guarantee a baby? Nobody is forcing us to do this. We are in control, after all. I approached Scott and asked him: what if we don’t move forward, and what if we surrender?

It’s been two years since that moment of surrender and since then, two years of unexpected peace has followed. In total though, we have been trying to have a baby for over five years. While it seems unimaginable, we remain hopeful, and ready to share our experience. This will not just be a story about our IVF journey, but about the growth, tears, and human moments that gave us strength—even when hope seemed lost. 

Perhaps our future child will read this one day.

Perhaps someone in the infertility trenches will feel less alone. 

Perhaps I use this as personal reflection, especially when life throws challenges beyond infertility.

And so, as we begin to share our story, we remember the words that carried us through those hardest days:

   the wind blows strong 

   is the tree ok? 

   when your wind blows,

   do you crack 

   or do you sway