Single-parenthood is a challenge. Many in this position
found themselves there by unsavory circumstances: a break-up or divorce, or the
loss of a partner. Most people don’t choose this status from the get-go. But I
am one of these slightly delusional individuals taking the mom path solo. Now I’m
not some anti-marriage, down with love renegade, I was open to meeting Ms.
Right and starting this journey together, but apparently the little woman is
taking her sweet time showing up, and my biological clock became impatient. Feeling
I was up to the task of raising what would undoubtedly be the angelic fruit of
my loins (unless my mother gets her wish that I’ll have a child just like me),
I pushed forward in my new fertility endeavor. I have no illusions about the
difficulties that I will face as a single parent, however I was not prepared
for the obstacles I would face as a single, lesbian woman seeking fertility
treatments in America.
Finding a doctor was not hard. The first clinic I visited
was not a favorite, but I sat through an hour long informative seminar to waive
the nearly $400 consultation fee to meet with the doctor and devise a plan.
Ultimately the plan was to push towards the most expensive option (IVF) without
ruling out less-invasive possibilities. I moved on, enlisting the help of Yelp
(let’s face it, they have everything) and found a qualified doctor in the area
who took the time to genuinely get to know me and utilize a more conservative
approach in treatment to start, IUI artificial insemination.
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| My lover the exam table |
Although I understood that parenting alone would be hard and
so would these treatments, I could not grasp the emotional rollercoaster I
would find myself on as I went through each trial on my own. Few people knew of
the genesis of my treatments, and none were there with me as I went through each
appointment. The cold sterility of the offices, the echoing emptiness of a
single occupant in what should have been a two person capacity room, and lobbies
full of couples who glance questioningly my way when I enter without a better
half. I chose this, but at times, I regretted it. Especially when the failures
came.
The first treatment brought unexpected symptoms that
indicated a successful pregnancy: nausea, breast sensitivity, moodiness, sensitivity
to smell, and even a delayed menstrual cycle. Though I cautioned myself against
getting my hopes up on the first try, all signs pointed to baby. And then they
didn’t. The purported symptoms showed themselves to be nothing more than side
effects of the fertility medications I was taking. The devastation poured down
on me, and while my extremely small circle of support attempted to comfort me
through texts, I cried by myself until I fell asleep, wondering if this would
be easier to bear with someone by my side. The second and third tries were much
the same, horrible side effects and broken dreams. While the doctor could see
no natural cause of infertility, my stress levels were through the roof. I had
recently moved my home, and my job was becoming exceedingly stressful to the
point where I was ready to quit when I had no other job to go to. On top of
this, I was not only racing the biological clock, but I was racing my depleting
bank account as well.
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| A single $15 pill and prenatal vitamin |
I had saved what I believed to be a fair amount of money,
drawn on estimates of fertility treatment costs posted on the internet. But the
hidden fees were never discussed, and my initial consultation with the failed
clinic shocked me. Obviously costs of treatments are expensive, but in a place
like America, where medical supplies, equipment, and medication is all grossly
inflated, the costs can be absurd. To break down the costs of my first three
treatments: 5 pills of fertility medication was approximately $75, the actual artificial
insemination was $1,025, the cost of the single vial of sperm from the bank was
$795 + $60 to rent the tank it was transported in (it would have cost $200 to
ship it to my clinic, but my thrifty ass drove the 100-mile round trip to the
bank to save whatever money I could), and the single shot that I took to trigger
ovulation was $150. One basic treatment cost $2,100. In addition to these
costs, I shelled out one time fees including $300 for an initial consultation, $100
for a blood test to check my hormone levels, and $325 for an HSG test, a most
painful x-ray procedure where they fill your uterus and fallopian tubes with
fluid to ensure everything is clear and clean. Needless to say the money meter
was quickly falling.
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| $60 Sperm Tank |
Now a heterosexual
couple often times would only seek the assistance of a fertility doctor after
several months or even a few years of trying, which, once they passed 12 months
of failed attempts, a large portion of their treatments would be covered by
insurance as they were determined to be struggling with infertility. Once
seeking treatment, the couple would have a natural sperm provider in the male
partner, so simply being heterosexual in a heterosexual relationship automatically
saves them $1,000 in addition to the insurance coverage they’re granted. Lesbian
couples and singletons are not afforded these same graces as they must pay full
price from the beginning and pay for their man-worms (sorry, but the word sperm
is becoming redundant). In my case, being single with one household income, I
could not afford 12 months of treatment before my insurance would deem me “infertile”
and begin paying for part of my treatments. Unfortunately, as time would tell,
my doctor was not willing to treat me for IUI insemination for longer than 5 months
anyways, but these hidden fees that were likely hiked to costs miles above
manufacturing expenses (for example, they pay men on average $70 for each sperm
sample then in turn charge desperate clients 12 times as much, citing storage
fees) financially cripple those longing for a family.
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| Ovulation aka Ass Shot |
Given the stress I was under and the growing frustration and
devastation of what I was beginning to view as my failure as a woman, I opted
to take a few months off to collect myself and try to get into a better place
emotionally before another attempt. Then, after a brief consultation with my
doctor, we decided to move forward with more intensive hormone supplements to
assist in fertility, and drain my bank account a bit faster. Surprisingly in
just three short months, the cost of the IUI cycle jumped from $1,025 to $1,325,
the sperm had jumped from $855 to $925, and we added the hormone shots to the
mix, two vials of which ran me $600. The shots also required aftercare pills,
or additional hormones in the form of vaginal supplements, costing $200 for a two
week supply. This, in hand with the typical 5 pills of fertility medications
and the ovulation trigger shot added up to nearly $3,300.
I was not hopeful for this round as tests indicated I was
not responding to the hormones as well as I should, though they wreaked havoc
on my system all the same and left me feeling overwhelmingly sick. With the
physical illness, failure was not far behind as I took a blood test and soon
received a call with the bad news that the treatment was unsuccessful. My heart
sank even lower knowing how much money I spent on medications that seemingly
made no difference at all. I’d received the news in the middle of the day; most
people in my support system were at work and unable to speak. I cried alone on
the couch with no one but my dog to offer an endearing paw. I sobbed so hard at
times my breath caught in my throat and I frantically beat my chest to avoid suffocation.
I fell apart.
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| Jillian after my bad news |
My grief was all-encompassing and my loneliness threatened
to swallow me whole. People tried to understand, to help, but no one knew
exactly what I was going through and many times their attempts of being helpful
were perfectly damaging. I often heard stories of the aforementioned
heterosexual couples who struggled for months and years but “just kept trying”
and eventually it happened, so I should just keep trying too. My mental retort
was always “you f***ed each other for free, are you going to pay the $3000 a
month so I can keep trying?” Many regaled me with stories of how they were stressed
about getting pregnant and once they relaxed, it worked, so I should relax too
and it will happen. Again, that charming voice in my head shot back “this is
not a glass of wine and a romantic evening with your partner kind of
experience, why don’t you relax while you’re in stirrups under bright lights in
a cold doctor’s office while some stranger pokes around your patootie!” A stranger,
I duly noted, who never bought me dinner. They didn’t understand the money,
they didn’t understand the strain of each doctor visit and the process of insemination,
they couldn’t fathom the torture I put myself through physically and emotionally
each month for a dream that may never realize.
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| 100-mile traffic trek to sperm bank |
The doctor sat me down after this fourth failed attempt. “Four
cycles is a lot. You should have been pregnant by now.” Yeah, no shit doc. He
cemented my inner distortions of being a failure as a woman, inciting my
irrational anger at these horrid organs that have made my life hell once a
month for years but can’t grant me this one wish. I knew the dreaded IVF conversation
was coming, and flashbacks of the pushy doctor I first met came to mind as I awaited
her affirmation. Then he bestowed a gift of hope lined with dark finality. “We’ll
do one more round, up the hormones, try a new diet, but if this doesn’t work,
we’ll have to move to IVF.” I knew IVF was not an option. While costs of IVF are
minimal in other parts of the developed world, again, the inflation of medical
costs in America obliterated hope in many struggling couples and women trying
to get pregnant. The running cost in California for a single IVF cycle is
$30,000 with an average success rate of 35-40% for women my age, meaning
multiple cycles are likely. In comparison, many countries in Europe average a cost
of $3,000-6,000, and those with socialized healthcare are likely to get a
portion covered as well. This is where the dream of motherhood ends for many. And
I thought it ended for me.
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| Daily Hormone Shots |
I began to prepare for my final cycle. In addition to
drastically changing the already strict diet I was on, I amped up the intensive
exercise I was doing. I enlisted the help of a life coach to assist me in
managing the overwhelming stress that I clearly was not wrangling in well
enough on my own. And the doctor and I jumped the level of hormones I was
taking, which ultimately jumped my final cost to over $4,700. My savings was
gone, some added costs went to my credit card. I had resigned to the
possibility that I would be broke and babyless, and began to estimate how long
it would take me to save for adoption proceedings, which was no doubt another
costly endeavor with hidden fees and other stresses much like this. I took my pregnancy
test at the doctor, then ambled home to wait in dark apprehension for the phone
call. After a few hours of random tearfulness and failed Netflix distractions,
I took my dogs for a walk, carrying my cell, just in case. As I rounded a
grassy bend, the phone rang and my heart stopped. The voice on the other end
was unexpectedly cheerful, nothing like the last time when they were bracing me
for bad news. I was confused. She gushed out that I received a positive pregnancy
test, and I nearly collapsed to the sidewalk as my knees weakened beneath me in
shocked relief. I was crying, I was dizzy, it felt both surreal and impossible.
In my typical anxious form, I even rushed home and took a pregnancy test just
to make sure the doctor’s office didn’t make a mistake. And for once, I waited
to share my news as it was mine and mine alone, and I wanted to have a peaceful
moment of joy with my little bean.
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| Vaginal Suppositories aka Patootie Pills |
While I continue to bask in the glory of my pregnancy (okay
glory is a bit of an exaggeration, more like warm glow coupled with nausea, sore
boobs, an insurmountable level of hormone-fueled bitchiness and 9 weeks of vaginal suppositories), I recognize how
close I came to the end of my road, and how many never make it this far. For
some, it’s the unfortunate path that has been drawn for their lives as biology just
refuses to comply. For others, it’s a financial crisis, plaguing all
individuals and couples, but none more so than members of the LGBTQ community. Of
course I’m not asking for free services, but fair pricing and cost control to ensure
we can pursue our dreams without going into drowning debt doesn’t seem like
asking too much.
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| Because blood tests are more accurate than home pregnancy tests but my anxiety didn't care |
Side note: I don't wish for this post to disparage adoption for LGBT couples in any way, I am and have always been open to adoption and it is still in my plans for my next child, however for some the importance of experiencing a biological pregnancy can be overwhelming and it was an experience I did not want to miss out on if I could help it. For those who cannot enjoy a biological pregnancy but know that parenthood is a must for their lives, please check out AdoptUSKids and consider fostering to adopt to provide a loving home to a kid in need.
