I Never Thought I’d Have to Fight Infertility and a Pandemic [Zora]

For months, I have felt like my future was uncertain. Panic attacks were routine. Tears, a daily event. Anger, mixed with doubt, fear, and sometimes a little bit of hope, filled my body. I seemed to have no control over the thing I wanted most in the world, and it felt like there was nothing I could do about it. Month after month, my body kept confirming that rejection, and month after month, I cried until my tears ran dry, trying to accept and live with the unknown while accepting the current reality: I may never be able to become pregnant.

And then Covid-19 was thrust into the world. By the time the virus hit New York City, those uncontrollable feelings had tripled. The whole world was now in a panic, and the word “uncertainty” became a part of my daily vocabulary and everyone else’s. Life spun out of control, and no one knew what the future held. My problems with trying to create life suddenly felt small as the world’s focus turned to preserving life. Suddenly it seemed like everyone was facing a reality that was out of their control.

Two weeks ago, I walked into a midtown fertility clinic, panicked about the decision I had to make. I was about to start my first treatment for IVF after several rounds of failed IUI cycles and months of trying to conceive. Dealing with infertility is an inherently emotional and anxiety-producing event, one that has been compounded even more by the coronavirus pandemic. Each day, as news spread of the virus’ reach, I worried more and more about how this global pandemic was going to affect my reproductive life. It was a selfish impulse, it seemed, in a time when people were dying and falling ill from a rapidly spreading virus, but I had not figured out what infertility looked like when the world was shrouded in uncertainty. I had no idea how to coexist with the fear of death and of never creating life. Each day, I woke up and fell asleep to a steady chorus of heart palpitations thumping away.

In some ways, I had gotten used to the fears about conception, especially as a Black woman. Last year, I was told that at the ripe old age of 38, my reproductive years were waning, and at this “geriatric” age, I needed to do whatever I could to assist my body in creating a life. Studies have found that Black women are twice as likely to experience infertility than White women but seek treatment about half as often. The silence around infertility in Black communities is starting to lift, but I was still unsure about what to do. For months, my husband and I tried less aggressive ways of conception, including medicated cycles and IUI, each attempt leaving me more heartbroken than the last. After yet another failed attempt to become pregnant, we were approved for IVF in February. It was a more aggressive path to conception but with higher success rates, and it finally seemed that I had more control over my reproductive life. For the first time in a while, I was calm. Hopeful even. But that moment was fleeting as the coronavirus moved from an outbreak in Wuhan, China, to a global pandemic.

I had no idea how to coexist with the fear of death and of never creating life.

Afew months ago, around the same time Covid-19 began to emerge, I was told about an unexplainable threat that was taking hold inside of me and causing me to be unable to get pregnant: infertility. Like many world leaders did with the virus, I sort of brushed off the news, confident that I could conquer whatever was happening in my body. I have always had a complicated, painful relationship with these organs that have betrayed me since I was a teenager suffering from fibroids and (unbeknownst to me) endometriosis. I have yet to make peace with my failing reproductive system that seems unable to produce life, but as a Type A person, I have always tried to be both practical and positive about bearing a child.

Dealing with infertility was hard. There was a lack of coordination between physicians, plus painful tests, confusing messages, unclear diagnoses, endless expenses, and the constant message that time was of the essence. But by far the most challenging aspect for me was this crippling, devastating feeling of uncertainty and lack of control. Neither my spirituality nor science offered me comfort, and aside from my husband and a few friends, few understood how devastating the diagnosis was for me.

For a while, it seemed, I was able to put some of my anxiety aside and get back to my normal life as I pursued treatment. I found a doctor who was able to inspect my endometriosis and fibroids. I started eating healthier and going to acupuncture for stress. But that peace was fleeting as the coronavirus spread, and my fear was no longer relegated to my womb. The uncertainty of my life that had been brought on by infertility infinitely increased as the pandemic spread.

Stores shuttered. Wall Street tanked. Schools began closing. Shelves emptied out. No one seemed to know what was happening. Within days, it felt like the future of both America and the world was uncertain, and once again, I, too, felt out of control.

I did the things they told us to do. I bought food, got medicines, washed my hands more diligently, but I couldn’t let go of the uncertainty that now felt more prescient than ever as a new anxiety came over me—that same feeling I had been dealing with for months. With dear friends abroad and a husband who is a New York City public school teacher, I could do nothing for days but watch television and obsessively check Twitter, constantly vacillating between thoughts of death and new life.

There was little news from fertility clinics about potential harm from the virus or how it would affect those undergoing treatments, so I turned to the worst place possible for medical advice: the internet. A few chats were going on about the virus, but the only thing they confirmed for me was that no one had a clue about what was happening. My fertility clinic in New York said that unless patients had symptoms of the virus, they should still come in for treatment. I looked to more established journals. The European Society for Human Reproduction and Embryology advised that fertility patients stop trying to get pregnant. Another study wondered what delays, which could be up to six months, could mean for people trying to create families, for anxious people looking to conceive, but it failed to give any conclusive advice. No one seemed to know what should happen.

I rubbed my empty belly and turned on CNN, where people walking around the streets of New York in light-blue masks filled my television screen. I started to cry. A few hours later, I received a call instructing me to order drugs to start IVF. Then Broadway shut down. Family members who were here on a recreational visit from New Mexico rushed to the airport. I sat down and cried some more.

I felt galaxies away from the person who just a few years ago wrote about being anxious about the egg-freezing process as a Black woman. Instead, I worried less about my race (though there is no denying that the fertility world feels lily white) and more about the privilege I had in being able to choose life even amid so much uncertainty. Was I being selfish? What about those who were fighting for their own lives? Was I taking resources away from those who needed them more than I did? Was I being a total narcissist, focused on a world that centered on creating life when an aggressive killer was calling death around the world?

The coronavirus struggle and infertility are not one in the same, but the privilege and the emotional tax it stirred inside me feel similar and stoke a similar anxiety. Though both are situations that are generally out of my control, in both cases I have the money, time, and work situation to shape it in ways that people with less money, resources, and education do not. Fertility treatments are often extended to a privileged few in society, and while New York state has recently changed laws to make it more equitable, in this time of crisis, it felt superfluous. My head throbbed as I felt my privilege bubbling up.

I was also worried about more practical matters. Was it safe? Should I be traveling on the subway to the doctor appointment? Would being pregnant while an outbreak peaked cause harm to the baby? More than that, I wondered when was the moment to give up on my quest for life and focus on the lives around me?

There are lots of jokes about coronavirus babies, but for me, this was a bigger decision than the phrase “quarantine and chill” implies. It’s a decision to be weighed carefully. I worried about the risk I would put myself in, as well as my husband, any future child, and others. There’s so little information about pregnancy, fertility, and the coronavirus that it was hard to know what to do.

But I was tired of living in fear. For months, it seemed I had been living in a world of worry and anxiety, first scared by fertility doctors that my eggs were dying off, that I had waited too long to have children, and now again, sitting in an apartment, looking out at empty streets, watching another event that forced me to relinquish control of my life.

I felt so alone, but I know I am not. According to a recent article, one New York City fertility clinic saw a 25% increase in the number of women seeking treatments. Uncertain about the future and fearful of getting the virus, the piece implied, new and old patients were rushing to start fertility treatments before the virus reached its peak.

A professor quoted in another article could not believe there was a rush to fertility clinics. “Really? A run on fertility clinics? We really need to work with facts and check our emotions,” she said. “Emotions are driving much of this response, instead of listening to science.” While perhaps factually true, it seemed like a callous statement as people are dealing with two very emotional concepts, life and death, simultaneously.

In this moment, with so little science to make sense of this event, I am drowning in emotions. Infertility has already made me aware of how little we can control over life. The coronavirus has only amplified it and heightened my anxiety. But I am listening as best I can to science. That, and that alone, is leading my decisions. But it still hurts.

Myinfertility journey has changed because of the coronavirus. It is no longer just about life, but also about death hanging over us at every instance. On a doorknob. A cellphone. The subway railing. For the past few months, I have been hyperfocused on how to create life. Shifting now to conversations about death is mind-blowing.

Many of the stories during this time seem to confirm the utter horror that humanity can be: the racism, the lack of empathy, the selfishness, and, from the highest levels of government, the prioritization of markets and business over everyday people. It makes me wonder if it is simply cruel to bring another human into this sort of world. But other stories show the unity, the joy, and the beauty of kindness in times of crisis. And it is then, in those moments, when I feel the need to reveal that to another life.

People often tell me about the uncertainty being a parent brings, and perhaps this is the buildup for that. Perhaps I am learning to live with the uncertainty of life and dealing with the reality that I have no control over what my reality looks like.

But that may have to wait. As I sat waiting to do the preliminary blood work to start IVF, still unsure about what to do, my doctor called. Having read the earlier advice from the European Society for Human Reproduction and Embryology and assessing that a full-scale medical crisis may be weeks if not days away, she suggested that her patients not start another fertility cycle, as completion may be uncertain. I was heartbroken for my future family but terrified about what this meant for the world.

From the day I started, the fertility clinics seemed like impersonal, almost factory-like places that were interested only in making babies and money. The doctors were friendly but fast, as if each second filled with extraneous words was costing them money. When one of these doctors suggested I delay this very profitable treatment, I could see how grave the situation had become. While the fertility clinic itself was still suggesting that patients carry on, I was touched by my doctor’s frankness. She said the decision was ours alone, but she wanted to spare us more grief.

My husband and I sat, horrified, looking at each other, wondering if we would ever be able have a child together, feeling like we would never get off the perpetual roller-coaster ride.

After a short discussion about resources that may be needed for other people and hospitals that may be too full if complications arose, we made the harrowing decision to stop the treatments. It was a stark reversal of course from just a few short weeks ago, when, armed with IVF pamphlets, vitamins, and statistics of success, I felt like things were looking up. Now, once again, that feeling had vanished, and it seemed as though I was walking back through the dark morass of my erratic and troubled reproductive life, entering that unknown land, knowing that with each passing day, my eggs grow older and my odds for a natural conception decrease.

As I walked out the office door, still unsure about my decision to cease treatment, I saw a young woman, alone, waiting to be seen by doctors and wearing a full-on face mask. As she sat slumped over a chair and staring out to space, I was both horrified and touched by her hope to continue on in these trying times.

A few days after my doctor visit, the fertility clinic sent out a notice. They were canceling any new IVF cycles, surely dashing the hopes of hundreds of women trying to conceive. It was official. The decision was final. I was glad my doctor spared me that week of grief, and I have already started to make peace with my likely delayed pregnancy, but it still hurts.

On March 17, the American Society for Reproductive Medicine published guidelines that cautioned families against starting new fertility treatment cycles for IVF, IUI, and egg freezing, with exceptions for emergencies.

An online petition was created soon after, protesting the notion that fertility treatment should be seen as elective. “Fertility treatment is both necessary and time sensitive,” said a petition by Beverly Reed, MD. “Despite the Covid-19 outbreak, no guidelines or organizations have asked fertile patients to avoid pregnancy or use contraception. Our infertility patients are now asking us: ‘Why are WE the only ones being asked to make a sacrifice to avoid pregnancy?’” The petition went on to say that this guideline “does not just affect infertility patients. What about same sex couples and single mothers by choice? Are they being treated equitably? Our patients’ desires to conceive should be respected and they should have the same opportunities to conceive that any other person would have in the United States (or even the world). They feel discriminated against and it is our duty to remedy this for them.” More than 12,000 people have signed on.

I understand the frustration of patients and doctors, yet I also don’t want to tax a system that already seems overburdened. Perhaps I too should be outraged, but the reality is I just don’t know what to think or how to feel. So I’ve defaulted to the feelings that surrounded my initial diagnosis: numb and helpless.

The coronavirus has changed my fertility journey and made me more anxious about both life and death, and I still feel uncertain about where the end will lead me. A month ago, I would pass a certain patch of grass or see a bright-blue bird above me and wonder if I would ever have a child who would get to share in these moments. Today I wonder if anyone on the planet will get to see such sights as we live out this dystopian nightmare.

People often tell me about the uncertainty being a parent brings, and perhaps this is the buildup for that. Perhaps I am learning to live with the uncertainty of life and dealing with the reality that I have no control over what my reality looks like. Perhaps it is a lesson I should have already learned.

I empathize with others around me who are sick, dying, and afraid of this virus, and I feel for the families who are dealing with fertility in this fearful time. As so many of us wonder about the world around us, about the death and illness that now seem so close, it also seems like a time to look at the life we want to create.