When my doctor uttered those three words, I initially hesitated, unsure who she was referring to. I had been holding my breath for so long, desperately hoping that this pregnancy would be the one that succeeded, that I wondered if she might be discussing my heart. But she wasn’t. This was my fourth miscarriage, and after five years of grappling with fertility issues, it felt as if my heart were being torn from my chest.
The journey had been arduous: five years, eight egg retrievals, five transfers, a diagnosis of endometriosis, twenty-two procedures under anesthesia, two abdominal surgeries, and four miscarriages. As an Olympic athlete, I had faced immense challenges, yet the strength required to compete on the world stage was nothing compared to the struggle I faced throughout my fertility journey.
I was 35 when I first considered starting a family, believing I still had plenty of time. But that’s the ironic thing about time—it feels infinite until it suddenly isn’t. Early on, I realized that having a baby would not be straightforward for me. My husband and I initially planned to freeze embryos so we could focus on our careers and start a family when we felt more prepared. However, after our first retrieval failed, we unwittingly embarked on a grueling five-year quest to bring a child into the world, completely unprepared for the challenges ahead.
I was familiar with hardship. I understood what it meant to fall and rise again, to lose a competition and fight my way back into the arena, to hit rock bottom and wake up early the next day to train once more. I had always taken pride in my resilience and my determination to succeed. However, with each unsuccessful retrieval, failed transfer, and heartbreaking loss, maintaining a positive outlook became increasingly impossible. There is no greater anguish than yearning to grow your family and being told, especially by your own body, that you cannot.
For the first time in my life, my body felt like a betrayer. It had always functioned in my favor—until it didn’t. While I continued to show up for work each day, smiling broadly under the bright lights, behind the scenes, I sank deeper into hopelessness with each miscarriage I faced.
When I lost my first pregnancy, I experienced no bleeding or physical symptoms of miscarriage. It wasn’t until one of my scheduled ultrasounds that I was confronted with the stark reality: the pregnancy was no longer viable. In that moment, I felt a profound disbelief and heartache. Although it felt like I was in a blackout, I remember my doctor discussing my options. She explained that while mifepristone—a pill used for some miscarriages—was available, given my severe endometriosis symptoms, surgery was the recommended course of action.
At that point, I was only vaguely familiar with the term D&C, or dilation and curettage. The thought of being anesthetized and awakening from this nightmare became increasingly appealing. I wanted—no, I needed—it to be over. Carrying an unviable pregnancy is one of the most harrowing experiences. You feel pregnant, your hormones are surging, and you might even be battling morning sickness. Yet, instead of anticipating the arrival of a baby, you are forced to endure an agonizing waiting game—waiting for the pregnancy to resolve, for the medication to take effect, or, in my case, for surgery to be scheduled.
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