Being a nurse for the past 15 years, I’m used to having answers for my patients and troubleshooting problems when they arise. For the majority of my career, I’ve worked in maternal/child health. I’ve helped ease the worries of countless new mothers and have been at their bedsides when they’re overwhelmed with the care that comes with a new baby. But when I went through 3 years of infertility and IVF in my mid-30s, it was the first time I was in the patient role.
I first learned I would need IVF shortly after I received a diagnosis of PCOS by my ob/gyn. I was 33 at the time, getting closer to the dreaded age of 35 when fertility starts to decline. My doctor advised me that, because of my age and PCOS, I shouldn’t spend a year trying to conceive naturally before seeing a fertility specialist. When my husband and I met with our fertility doctor 5 months later after some initial testing, we learned we’d have to do IVF because my husband’s results showed he had infertility. This was news to both of us, but soon after, our IVF journey began.
During my experience with infertility, all my nursing knowledge seemingly evaporated. I found myself anxiously searching for answers on Google, something I had routinely encouraged my patients not to do. Even when my nurse and doctor advised me of normal symptoms and test results, I still had to confirm with the internet that everything was okay. I had no trust in the process and fretted about whether my husband and I were making the right decisions about my IVF treatment.
As an infertility patient, I was an anxious mess, similar to the new mothers I was used to working with. I trusted my doctor but often felt I was just along for the ride, not knowing if I was on the right course. Much like new motherhood, infertility was all new to me and I had no prior knowledge of the process before starting IVF. I had a good rapport with my nurses, but I felt helpless that they couldn’t fix my problem of failures and losses. IVF was taking over my life and I didn’t know which way to turn.
During the course of my treatments, I experienced one implantation failure, two chemical pregnancies, and one early miscarriage. After my last miscarriage, my only clinical pregnancy, I fell into a deep depression, losing hope for any success in the future. Coming out of this fog, I decided I needed to start getting educated about my care and think carefully about what we knew about my losses so far and what we still might not know.
I asked my doctor to test me for a genetic mutation that, in the past, had been associated with pregnancy loss. Based on a genetic panel we ran earlier, we already knew I had a thrombophilia and was being treated. The test I asked for is controversial because it’s unclear whether it’s truly associated with pregnancy loss, but I figured that having the knowledge couldn’t hurt.
We ran the test and, lo and behold, I was positive. I was a little surprised, but I also felt relieved—maybe this was the reason behind my losses. My doctor added another medication to my regimen and we went in for another embryo transfer—our fifth cycle. I got pregnant again, but this time it stuck. My pregnancy hormones rose appropriately, we saw a gestational sac, followed by hearing the heartbeat a week later. I stayed cautiously optimistic for a while, remembering my previous losses. But my pregnancy remained healthy and uneventful, and 9 months later, I delivered a healthy baby girl.
My experience taught me that, much like I had always encouraged my patients, I had to be my own advocate. Through all my losses, I somehow was able to find my inner wisdom and take an active role in my treatment. I drew from thoughtful research from the right sources rather than anxiously scouring the internet. In this way, I felt like the confident nurse I always knew I was, counseling her patients and helping them make their own smart decisions.
Being a nurse while struggling with infertility taught me that although it’s okay to be anxious about a health struggle, ultimately, I’m my own leader. As nurses, we help our patients take part in their care and guide them in a direction that will lead to the best possible outcome. When I did that for myself, I finally found success. My experience taught me that hope and possibility can come from loss and grief. Nursing was there for me in my time of need and it didn’t let me down.
Allison Becker, MSN, RNC, IBCLC is a Staff RN at Riverview Medical Center in Red Bank, NJ
