Long Shot: How Sharing the Burden of IVF Helped Strengthen My Marriage

holly schechter sharing burden ivf

There was no way I was going to let my husband inject a needle into my stomach.

At IVF class, the nurse showed us how to “pinch an inch” of fat on our stomach by leaning forward in a chair and slowly inserting the needle into the pinched area.  It seemed that most of the men in class intended to administer the injections for their partners. But I was firm going into it that Mike was not going to administer mine.

I explained to Mike that there were practical reasons why I wanted to do the injections myself: I knew that needles make him queasy; he works long hours and might not always be home at injection time; and the injections were subcutaneous, just under the skin, which I could do, as opposed to intramuscular, which are generally given in the tush, which I wouldn’t have been able to do as easily.

I’m fine to do them, I assured him. I’m independent. I just want you to sit next to me and make sure I’m doing it right.

I didn’t explain to him the true reasons why I didn’t want him to press the needle into my pinched inch of fatty abdominal tissue: because I was scared; because I needed to feel in control; because I wasn’t about to let him be the hero.

So, as we embarked on our quest to make a baby, he prepared the strerile work area, he stood next to me, he squeezed my shoulder. But he didn’t plunge the syringe.

This is not how we wanted to make a baby; this is not how anyone wants to make a baby. Every time I stuck those needles into my stomach, morning and night, I asked myself why.

This process made me acutely aware of all he did and didn’t do, made me weigh all the pros and cons, made me question our desire to start a family together. It made me doubt my desire to start a family with him and even why I married him in the first place. I wondered if God or The Universe or Mother Nature or another Force was trying to tell us that we shouldn’t be having children—it shouldn’t be this difficult!—and I wondered if we should just call the whole thing off.

As he would set up our sterile workspace, I would walk around the kitchen with an ice pack inside the waistband of my sweatpants to numb the injection site—and a chip on my shoulder.

I moaned and groaned to exaggerate how awful I felt. I repeatedly said ‘needle’ and ‘syringe’ and ‘hormones’ so he wouldn’t forget exactly what I was going through on our behalf. I purposely moved slowly, and I moaned and groaned to exaggerate how awful I felt. I repeatedly said “needle” and “syringe” and “hormones” so he wouldn’t forget exactly what I was going through on our behalf. I referred to the medications casually, to assert my false sense of expertise and authority.

At first, he didn’t come to most of my early morning appointments—there’s really nothing to see or do, and joining me would make him miss his morning meeting. But when we learned that our first pregnancy was lost, he didn’t mention that he was missing his morning meeting as we sat at a diner on Madison Avenue and ate egg sandwiches in silence.

He didn’t get excited when we learned about our second pregnancy. “We have to be cautious,” he warned, “because of what happened last time.” I was hurt.

But then he didn’t attempt to hide his tears when we learned that I was pregnant for the third time; he was really optimistic that finally it was going to stick. So, the let-down was even harder. He didn’t understand how it was possible that I knew when I’d lost it.

“I felt it in my sleep,” I told him. “When I’m pregnant, every night it feels like I’m sleeping on a moving ship. I woke up last night because, suddenly, everything was still.”

A year into our treatments, in September, we sat across from each other at the kitchen table every night for a week, trying again to make a baby.

“I don’t know why it hurts so much this time,” I told him one night as I injected 150 units of diluted Menopur powder into my swollen belly. “Last cycle I did it with the mixing needle and I was fine, but this time around, it just kills me.”

As he cleaned up our baby-making setup, he said: “It seems like you’re pushing a lot of air in because you’re pointing the needle at an upward angle. Tomorrow try to point it down. Then there’s no air, and the liquid is right at the tip.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing it.” I dropped the needles in the sharps container, maybe more dramatically than necessary.

Along with the ebb and flow of pain from the shots went my mood and thoughts about Mike’s participation. Was he allowing me to take the lead, to plunge my own syringe and remain in control, watching carefully from across the sterile kitchen table? Or was he reaping the benefits of a self-proclaimed self-sufficient wife who demanded little of him and injected the needles into her own stomach?

This is not how we wanted to make a baby; this is not how anyone wants to make a baby.  Every time I stuck those needles into my stomach, morning and night, I asked myself why.The next night, we proceeded as normal. I silently cursed him and his “advice” as I huffed around the kitchen preparing. But I remembered what he said. I leaned forward toward the kitchen table, pinched an inch, and pressed the needle into my stomach at a downward angle.

“It worked!” I screamed. He smiled knowingly.

“I see it from a different angle than you do,” he said. “It just made sense. I know you think I’m useless, but I actually pay close attention.”

Mike was right, of course. I had kept him a bystander; I sought satisfaction in martyrdom. And I carried a grudge, too; it was difficult to acknowledge that this wasn’t solely my burden to bear, just because it was solely my abdomen. I shamefully lifted my gaze to meet his, to show that I knew he wasn’t useless, and nodded my head in agreement.

Despite our small triumphs, that round, too, was unsuccessful. We would spend almost two more years sitting at our kitchen table, trying to make a baby. As I lost hope, I also relinquished my need to be a martyr. It became our struggle, our treatment: Mike found us a new doctor; he vocalized our frustration when a careless administrative error caused a significant delay; he took the calls when the clinic phoned with our news. And he started giving me shots.

On the IVF try that did work, Mike administered the nightly progesterone injection into my tush until the pregnancy reached twelve weeks. I had always felt confident injecting into my own stomach, but I became dizzy and nauseous at the idea of injecting into my rear end. I didn’t hesitate to let Mike plunge that syringe.

He became a skilled nurse—carefully bending me over the kitchen counter, pulling the skin taught, avoiding bruised areas, applying immediate pressure before I could see the blood. I rarely felt the needle. After, we’d rest on the couch together while I applied heat to prevent welts. I actually looked forward to our routine. I missed it as the pregnancy marched forward.

When I was singularly focused on having a baby, it had been so easy to let myself forget one of the most compelling reasons I married Mike: I saw the father in him. I believed that he would be the kind of father to make sure his children always held the door for someone behind them. He would feed them junk food behind my back, but appreciate my vigilance to ensure their proper nutrition. He would indulge his teenage daughter’s melodrama, but never tolerate disrespect.

I believed that Mike would be a father like mine: stern yet kind, strict yet tolerant, appropriately playful, fiercely loyal to his family. A father that a daughter would worship.

When I see him now with our beautiful daughter, I know that I was right.


Contributor

Holly Schechter

Holly Schechter is an English teacher at Stuyvesant High School in New York City. She also serves on the editorial staff of Intima: Journal of Narrative Medicine.


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