ivf

I felt like my body held some kind of magic — magic I always saw in other people, but not in myself. Because despite all the pain I had been through, I was able to use my body for something beautiful.

When I was first diagnosed with Stage IV endometriosis and told that my fertility had become a now or never proposition, I didn’t know anyone else who had faced anything similar. All of my friends were at the point of marrying and having babies themselves. Several had gotten pregnant without even meaning to. Meanwhile, I was 26 and single, being told that it might never happen for me at all. The whole thing was crushing, perhaps even more so because I didn’t feel like there was anyone I could talk to about it. My friends couldn’t relate, and even those who were most empathetic and anxious to help were often at a loss for what to say.

Aside from the physical and psychological toll these injuries take, they also leave many combat veterans unable to have children without medical assistance. The problem becomes even more complicated when they discover that the VA doesn’t cover IVF.

“This might be a little uncomfortable,” my doctor said. I put my headphones in and clutched my iPhone, turning the volume up on my white noise app, and braced myself for another D&C.

Our first IUI happened, and I can describe it as “OH ALL THE SWEARING THIS HURTS SO MUCH WHY IS THIS TERRIBLE THING HAPPENING.” It turns out that I have a scarred cervix, which requires that it be manually opened in order to put in the catheter.

The moment I learned I couldn't have a baby, conception went from being my assumption to being my purpose.