Becoming Three - by Kat Gutierrez

Stories

Apr 10

Before my wife and I got married seven years ago, we talked about having children. We both agreed we wanted kids – at least two, but maybe more.

About a year and a half, after we got married, we started our fertility journey with an initial appointment at the fertility clinic.

We were given a slew of options and were told to start our search for a sperm donor.

So, we started our search for a donor online. Our criteria were:

· An Asian donor, preferably Filipino, since my wife (Emily) is Filipino, and I’m white and would be carrying our child

· CMV negative (a requirement based on our initial blood tests)

· Clean health history

· Canadian compliant. Because most sperm donations happen in the US, as Canada has strict rules around which sperm we’re allowed to use here. (Don’t ask me why, it honestly makes little sense to me.)

It didn’t seem like a long list to us, and yet we were left with a whopping zero donors. So, back to the drawing board, we went. We expanded our search to donors who were:

· CMV negative

· Had a clean health history

· Were Canadian compliant

· Resembled my wife in some way – either they were Asian or had similar skin tone or features to hers

We were left with a total of five donors to choose from. In the end, we chose a donor who wasn’t Asian but looked the most like Emily and fit all the other criteria.

With our sperm donor chosen and our initial tests complete, it was time to start trying to have a baby.

Our fertility doctor suggested we try Intrauterine Insemination (IUI) – widely known as the “turkey baster method” – and because I had always wanted to experience pregnancy and childbirth and Emily did not, I went in for my first insemination.

The morning of the insemination, I went into the fertility clinic to receive a trigger shot, which is essentially a bunch of hormones meant to ensure my mature egg would release in time to meet the sperm.

In short, the trigger shot was our best bet to ensure I would get pregnant.

Every queer female couple we had talked to before our first insemination said they got pregnant after their first or second insemination.

So, of course, I took that to heart and was sure I would get pregnant on the first try. A week after the insemination, I was having all the typical early pregnancy symptoms you hear about – tender breasts, bloating, nausea, etc.

I was sure I was pregnant. That is until I woke up to find blood-stained underwear. I had gotten my period. I was devastated and inconsolable. The hormones from the trigger shot had affected my body and made it seem as though I was pregnant.

We tried three more inseminations, each one ending with me getting my period and sobbing on the floor of our bathroom.

During that time, four of our friends announced their pregnancies. I was jealous and angry at my friends, who seemed just to get pregnant like it was no big deal.

After our fourth failed IUI treatment, we decided we would stop trying for a while. I was extremely depressed and struggling mentally, I couldn’t keep putting my body through constant blood work, ultrasounds, and hormones.

When we had initially met with the fertility clinic, our doctor recommended we get on a list for IVF (in-vitro fertilization).

A few years prior, Canada had introduced new funding for IVF for couples that were going through IVF for the first time. We got on the list just in case.

A month after we decided to pause, the clinic sent me an email stating that if we were still interested in a funded IVF cycle, we should call the clinic as funding is available on a first-come, first-serve basis.

As luck would have it, we were chosen!

Since we were now doing IVF, we had the opportunity to change the way we had been trying to have a baby. Instead of using my egg, we decided to do reciprocal IVF, meaning we would use Emily’s egg, and I would carry our child.

I spent the next few weeks administering needle after needle into Emily’s bruised stomach. It was hard seeing her go through so much pain. But in the end, it was worth it.

We ended up with three healthy embryos and an appointment for when they would transfer one embryo into my uterus.

Our first embryo transfer was a success, and I was pregnant with our first child.

I assumed – like most first-time parents, I’m sure – that pregnancy would be glamorous and fun like the TV shows and movies portrayed. Boy, was I wrong!

My pregnancy was extremely difficult. I spotted at 10 weeks, then bled heavily at 15 weeks. At our anatomy scan, we were told there were cysts on our baby’s brain, which could potentially be a sign of a chromosomal abnormality that would cause our baby to die either in utero or shortly after birth.

The cysts eventually disappeared from future scans, and my midwives assured us that everything looked good with our son. We were stressed and worried, nonetheless.

By my third trimester, I was in extreme pain and was told to rest as much as possible.

Near the end of my pregnancy, I began feeling the first twinges of what I would later learn were contractions. It was a Thursday night, and my labor continued for the next five days.

Our son’s birth did not go as planned. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I needed an assisted delivery with forceps.

After seven hours, our son was born, not breathing on his own, and my placenta would not release.

I lost over a liter of blood and was convinced I was going to die. When I heard my son’s first cries, I remember thinking, “He’s safe. I got him here. I can go now.”

Later, Emily told me she also thought I was going to die and didn’t know whether to be by my side or our son’s.

In the end, both my son and I were okay and released from the hospital after two days.

The world shut down just weeks after our son was born. The village we thought we were going to have was ripped away from us, and we were left on our own.

I developed severe postpartum anxiety (PPA), postpartum depression (PPD), and postpartum rage.

I loved my son, but I was angry when he wouldn’t sleep on his own (even though logically, I knew this was impossible); I was anxious about everything.

Everything needed to happen on a specific schedule, and if anything went off-course, I would panic and become angry. I felt like a shell of a person. I would look in the mirror and not recognize who I was.

It wasn’t until shortly before our son’s first birthday that I began seeing a maternal mental health therapist. Everything began to click.

I wasn’t a bad mom, I was just a mom who had been dealt a very difficult hand. I started taking medication to help with my PPA, and slowly I came back to myself.

A few months after our son’s first birthday, our fertility clinic reached out with a bill for the next year of embryo storage.

Emily and I sat down and discussed our options. We could pay the near $500 for another year of storage for our remaining embryos, or we could choose to dispose of them or donate them.

The answer was pretty clear – I couldn’t go through another failed attempt, difficult pregnancy, traumatic birth, or PPA/PPD/PPrage, and Emily couldn’t live through any of it again, either.

On top of that, it wouldn’t be fair to the child we already had. The choice was simple for us. We chose to dispose of our remaining embryos. We would be one and done.

Being one-and-done wasn’t our first choice, it kind of came to us by circumstance. It wasn’t what we had imagined for our family, but it was what felt right for us.

Both Emily and I are only children, so we knew that our son would be okay. We knew that the stereotypes about only children were just that – stereotypes.

Our son didn’t need a sibling and would make life-long friends and have a chosen family, just like we have.

It’s been over three years since our son was born, and I can confidently say that we are so happy as a family of three.

There is no lack of love or joy in our home. Our son is growing up with two happy and mentally/physically healthy moms, three cat siblings, and endless opportunities to travel the world and participant in any hobbies he might have.

Just the other night, during our regular bedtime dance party, our son asked both Emily and me to stand inside one of his toy boxes.

We stood, all squished together, holding onto each other and laughing as we swayed back and forth, nearly falling over several times.