When Continuing Hurts More Than Stopping

When R and I first started undergoing treatments and I was new to the online IF world, I'd see women ask "How do you know when it's time to stop?" as they were trying to figure out the next steps in their paths. And the answer, invariably, always came: When it hurts more to continue than it does to stop.

As a relatively naive newbie back then, I couldn't exactly wrap my head around that.

I mean, really, how could it hurt less to stop trying (and possibly not have kids) than it could to sit in a chair and listen to your doctor rattle off all the (medical) things wrong with you and your husband and conclude by telling you that it just might never happen for you?

I planned to fight like hell until we got to the other side, regardless of what it took. I would just keep marching forward, doing whatever we needed to do, until we made it happen. As if determination is the only essential factor.

So we went through a lot, and still, stopping wasn't even a consideration. And then we lost baby #5 through miscarriage #4. And for the first time I started to understand, at least on a very vague level, how continuing could maybe hurt more.

But still, I wasn't ready to consider stopping.

So we continued to march: through a disasterous retrieval, a shockingly good retrival, thyroid surgery, and my dad almost dying.

And slowly, during all of that, I began to think about how much time we have spent. How much we have sacrificed, lost, to infertility. Financially, emotionally, time-wise, other dreams and plans. All in the pursuit of a dream that is still just as elusive now - if not even more so - than it was when we started in 2003. And how if we stopped, we could stop funneling all of our bank account to REs, we could travel without a medical purpose as impetus for the trip, we could buy a smaller house with a smaller mortgage and possibly work a smaller number of hours.

Then we had the most recent miscarriage in May. And we decided to pull out all the stops for one last attempt - antibiotic treatments, consulting with reproductive immunologists, even a biopsy to confirm that I have the beta-3 itegrin receptor (which is a good thing), even though RE is already pretty sure I have it.

No regrets. It's the motto with which I vowed to approach this entire process.

To that end, in the past month, I've had literally 37 vials of blood drawn. Ovulation could not be detected, so now I'm on estrogen, soon to be followed by progesterone, so a little piece of my endometrial lining can me snipped out of my uterus in a few weeks, sans general anesthesia. On top of all of that, it has been the most insane month of work in my entire life, and the next three or four will be just as crazy.

So I'm cranky. I'm freakin' tired. Exhausted, really. Bloated like a balloon and gaining weight at the rate of about a pound a day, thanks to the estrogen.

Then yesterday, all of the immune test results (accounting for 35 of the 37 vials) arrived. And I looked at the results. And I know with 99.9% certainty at least one of the things the RI is going to recommend is LIT.

And I Don't. Want. To. Do. It.

More accurately, I don't want to cross a dangerous border into Mexico to get it, and I don't want to drain our bank account to travel repeatedly to someplace like Europe for it. It's not the actual treatment I'm against, just what is involved in getting it.

So R and I talked about it last night. We didn't reach any decision yet. But we - or at least, I - did reach that moment. The moment where it finally hurts more to continue than it does to stop.

I don't know yet what we're going to do. R's feeling is go big (including LIT) or go home.

I don't know that I have "big" left in me.