Smiracles: Preface

Part I

Behold, there shall be a record kept among you. -Doctrine & Covenants 21:1

If Paris Hilton can copyright "That's Hot" then I can certainly invent my own word. I invented the word "smiracle". It means small miracle. Patent pending.

The word came about after our first IVF. I couldn't believe how many small miracles I noticed when the big miracle didn't happen. It opened my eyes to the Lord's generosity and created a new habit. I see smiracles every day because smiracles are everywhere.

If you ever come across a smiracle the most important thing to do is WRITE IT DOWN. Write it down for your benefit as well as for your posterity. They say God is in the details; it's easier to remember Him if you remember what He did for you. I was the recipient of smiracles so good I swore I'd never forget them-but memory is limited and most of my mental RAM is spent organizing daily to-do lists. Happily I kept a meticulous journal the last three years and preserved the whole picture.

I don't expect one other person on earth to care about my story, especially readers with narrow comfort zones or personalities that cringe when they hear reproductive parts mentioned. (I think I used to be one of those people.) But I care about it. A span of ten days taught me more about the nature of God as my Heavenly Father than any other time in my life. It was ten days of drinking undiluted HE KNOWS MY NAME concentrate.

Our first IVF was a Minimal Stimulation cycle which used the least amount of fertility drugs with the shortest possible length of usage. Even though I made Grade-A eggs like an Olympian chicken they didn't implant, possibly because my uterine lining was a shallow, non-optimal 7mm. After talking to our doctor months later he mentioned Clomid blocks estrogen absorption and estrogen is what builds the uterine wall. After praying about it Greg and I chose to do Traditional IVF for the second and final round nine months later; it had more drugs and a higher cost but didn't use evil Clomid. We crossed our fingers, called the fertility pharmacy in London, and swiped two credit cards. We told no one about secret second round because if it failed no one would know. We only had each other to rely on when it got emotional, or so I thought.

IVF is a race with several checkpoints. Your body must respond to the injections and produce the desired results on time if the process is to happen.

29 September 2013

I snuck out of church and drove alone to the first big checkpoint where Dr. A was going to count and measure my growing follicles. (Follicles are the "egg cartons." Without follicles there are no eggs, without eggs there are no babies. It all starts with follicles.) Unlike the previous IVF I had been in sharp abdominal pain all week. Things were bubbling and sparking inside and I was positive the higher doses were paying off. I anticipated the first ultrasound free from nervousness knowing dark circles galore would reveal onscreen. (Follicles show up as black holes; nothing prettier than a huge black sphere on the monitor.) I was gobsmacked when the ultrasound proved a host of miniscule, completely worthless follicles. Dr. A was similarly astounded I had not responded to the drugs. He gave me six hours to talk with Greg and make a choice: we could either ABORT THIS CYCLE and wait another month or we could BLAST.

To blast meant we would overnight $3100 of extra drugs from a pharmacy in Maine and "blast" them into my system by dispensing the maximum dose allowed for a human over the next three days. If at least three follicles responded and grew to 10mm by Wednesday we could proceed. If they didn't we were simply out the money and could try again another month. (Why order from Maine? Because you can't overnight drugs from London even though the UK sells fertility drugs for 70% less than the US. Somewhere in Maine beyond the blueberry brambles, lobsters, and lighthouses there is a pharmacy owner richer than a hedge fund manager enjoying his billions from desperate, petite-follicled women.)

I drove back to church lightheaded yet peaceful in a déjà vu daze. This was the precise replica of the predicament we had in the previous cycle. And we blasted then, too. We forced my body to make eggs but those eggs didn't make a baby. I stood at icky crossroads for the second time in my life. The mumble-jumble deafening mess at that intersection was difficult to endure. The road behind me bantered You already tried this and it was a waste of money. Learn from your mistakes! while the road ahead cheered You miss 100% of the shots of you don't take! Try again, babyyyy! (in a Dick Vitale voice) and the side roads robotically chanted a baby - a baby not - a baby - a baby not.

Back at church I found Greg and pulled him into a private corner of the gym. I filled him in on our total lack of ovarian success and ticking time bomb. Decisions, decisions. Our sweet bishop passed us by three times inquiring if we were okay and the third time I caved. We went into his office and gave him Fertility Woes 101 in three minutes or less. What followed is too sacred to share but it suffices to say we went home willing to BLAST relying on godly promises to help us reach in faith.

And that is when the smiracles kicked in.

Photo of a poster I silkscreened back in the day. My BYU designmates jokingly named this print "My Star!". Classmate Milky texted me over Christmas and I texted back a pic of me reaching for my Christmas tree's star to which he replied, "lol. my star!"