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One Couple’s Emotional Journey Through Testicular Cancer, a Miraculous Pregnancy, and Now IVF
After two ferocious rounds of testicular cancer, four unsuccessful rounds of IVF, a plethora of financial strain, and dozens of 10-hour trips from their home in Arizona to the clinic in L.A., J and Geoff Montgomery are refusing to give up on their dream of turning their family of three into a family of four.
With Geoff’s second diagnosis of testicular cancer (their whole story can be found here), in which the fertility test showed he had zero sperm, the Montgomery’s found out they had miraculously gotten pregnant naturally with their now 3-year-old son Oliver D. Cruz. And they became determined to have a second child.
After all, when your toddler lies down next to you, sighs, and says, “Mami, I know you’re sad, but it’s going to be okay. We are going to get another baby. Can I tell you a secret? I’m sad too. I miss the babies,” you don’t just throw in the towel. On Oliver’s third birthday as he blew out the candles on his dinosaur-topped cake, he wished for a baby sister. Cue all of the sobs.
So, what does a day in the IVF life look like? Basically, an emotional roller coaster.
J, who runs an Instagram account under the name @thishappymess, has been chronicling her journey with the hashtag #lifeloveandIVF in an effort to reduce the social stigma of infertility, bring awareness, and help others who are going through the same thing. But it’s far from easy to be so open when your heart is breaking every single day. “I begin to hear myself talk. Am I posting too much? Everyone’s lives are moving forward, am I only talking about my infertility woes?” she asks herself.
“While you’re stuck in infertilityland, everyone’s lives pass you by. Pregnancy announcements flood your feed as you watch your potential due dates come and go. Infertility is a lonely road. It makes you over-analyze every thought in your mind, every twitch in your body, and it’s not something that’s easy to relate to.”
When I asked J what her day-to-day emotions looked like, she said, “You feel like you’re stuck on a rollercoaster that everyone else seems to be able to get off of. But you’re the lone passenger, unsure what loop you’re about to embark on. And even if you’ve been on it repeatedly, each time it’s different. The emotions are high, the doubt is real, and the hurt imprinted in your heart feels permanent.”
J’s days in the last year have become routine, yet she still dreads them. The surplus of alarm clocks remind her it’s time to inject herself, take a pill, and repeat. Some shots don’t hurt, while others are extremely painful, leaving knots that make it painful to walk. Her belly is a wreck, turned black and blue, bloated by the overdose of hormones. But despite it all, she still focuses on the blessing of her miracle baby with gratitude for what she’s been given, and a hope for what the future holds.
“I know that this is all part of the plan, that things are hard to understand now. But we must be patient because one day it’ll all be worth it. I do believe that. I know we are stronger than this, and I know we will overcome. We can choose to let our sadness consume us, or we can choose to allow ourselves the grace to heal and try again. To me, IVF is equal parts science and God. My faith is the foundation to my drive. ”
“Does it ever get lonely?” I inquired.
“People stop asking how you’re doing as your heart feels literally crushed. You notice some of your loved ones keep their distance, yet you’re positive it’s only because they just don’t know what to say. Want to know the best thing that you can do? Be there anyway. Show up. Sit next to them in silence, or encourage your hurt friend to vent. Invite them places over and over until they say yes. Sure, gauge their need for space, but be present. Go beyond an emoji text. Be the loved one who shows up, even in the lowest of the low, and is there to cry, be mad, laugh, drink, or sleep the day away. Please don’t give up on your broken, hurting friend.”
With an aching heart, finances that put her in the “broke” category, and doubt kicking up in high gear, I asked J what keeps her pushing forward. Her raw and honest answer gave me the chills and, honestly, made me cry.
“There is this dim, yet ever-present, instinctual, unwavering hope that is floating within my core. It is small, but it is relentless. It keeps me up at night, researching and trying to come up with ways to find the solution to why IVF has yet to work for us. It keeps me daydreaming of finding the reason, solving it, and somehow, someway being able to finance our fifth round. Because when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can envision what my family looks like — and I always, most positively, see another being with us.”
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