CHAPTER ONE

IS MY UTERUS TOXIC?!

I’m being punished for being a party girl.

I feel obligated to share a little bit about myself. Both because it is my book and I can, but also because it helps put this whole thing into perspective. My husband and I met when I was just about to turn 30. We were living in NYC during a time when people seriously partied. And when I say party, I mean unacceptable, shameless, staggering-to-work, wearing-the-same-clothes-you-wore-the-night-before sorta partying they glamorize in television and in film—for some of us, it was real. I worked for a fashion magazine, and in the fashion industry, there was something social that I simply had to do most days of the week. There was never just one event I needed to attend—there were several, and there was undoubtedly an open bar at every one. 

Alcohol was a major food group, and I ate a lot. I was also no stranger to cocaine. Social trips to the bathroom with friends were commonplace. It was casually passed around at fashion events like someone offering you a cup of coffee. A very, VERY strong cup of coffee.

The last thing on my mind at that time was getting married and having a baby. Many of my friends had already mentally picked out their wedding dresses, but it honestly never crossed my mind. I didn’t come from relationship trauma—my parents are happily married—or find the entire concept of marriage repellent, I just hadn’t really thought about it. 

I met my husband through a mutual acquaintance who later became a close friend. We were at a bar in SoHo (shocking, I know), when I spotted him, walked over, and said “I’m going to marry you.” My now-husband responded, “I know.” 

I’m a woman who knows what she wants, even when she’s wasted.

I stared blankly at him with glassy eyes for a beat before staggering away to my studio apartment around the corner. Our mutual acquaintance had yet to learn where I lived precisely, but told my then-future husband that I lived somewhere on Prince Street. I found out later that he spent too much time walking around SoHo, trying to describe me to various folks exiting their buildings. He didn’t have my full name, so he couldn’t just pull up my photo. Social media wasn’t like how it is now. But he eventually got some solid intel and tracked me down. We immediately hit it off, and he asked me if I remembered what I’d said to him at the bar. “I don’t recall what I said, but I have the feeling I’m going to marry you,” I said.

Our life dating and enjoying New York together was a dream despite our being total opposites. He is a white man from Germany who worked on Wall Street at the time. I am a Black woman in fashion thirteen years his junior. He seemed so adult, together, and confident about his future—I felt like a basket case in comparison. But it worked because he never judged me on my wild antics. He laughed at my stories about my insanity at clubs, dancing on tables, or whatever absurd debauchery I seemed to get myself mixed up in. He balanced me out and made me feel more comfortable in my skin. My friends loved him and were shocked at how “girly” I was with him. Within four months, we told each other I love you, and six months after that, he asked me to marry him. We quickly ran off to City Hall to make it official, but he still flew to Florida so that he could ask my father correctly first. 

Within a year, we accidentally became pregnant. I was on birth control (The Patch), so it made no sense whatsoever. I was terrified—he was elated. I calmed my ass down and listened to the very logical words spewing from The German’s mouth. Everything he was saying sounded rational. What was I so scared of? I love this man, what am I waiting for? I accepted the fact that I was simply fearing change. Somehow I had missed the memo that I had a biological clock ticking, Becoming a mom at that very moment wasn’t at the top of my list, but neither was getting married and I felt really happy that we found each other. Fuck it. Three days after some deep introspection, I stopped panicking and became excited as well. I called all my friends and family the next day, sharing the “good news” about our being pregnant four whole days post a positive home pregnancy test. It’s a stupid, rookie mistake to share “the good news” before the end of the first trimester., but I was just so happy. My period started two weeks later. 

When I told my family and friends about our miscarriage, they seemed to be much more devastated than I was—I hadn’t had my first sonogram, heard a heartbeat, or been pregnant long enough to feel a strong attachment. It was also becoming very clear to me my utter denial, I was devastated every single time. I was so fragile. I thought that telling myself each loss shouldn’t hurt. Women lose their unborn babies after they have gotten to know them, felt them move. Pull it together, you have never experienced that kind of pain. I willed myself to not feel.

I learned later that you can fall in love pretty quickly with an unborn child. And the grief will hurt regardless of how far along you are. My heartbreak was valid.

Over the months and years, we endured many more losses. At one point I counted seven until I just stopped counting. I thought that if I stopped keeping track it would change reality, or maybe even the future. All before the heartbeat. I stopped telling anyone because I didn’t want to get their hopes up. Or my hopes up. As the years went by, we did test after test with doctor after doctor. They all chalked it up to bad luck with a pat on the back. It wasn’t until my mid-30s that we really started worrying and diligently began to track my ovulation and temperature. Getting pregnant was easy—it was the staying pregnant that felt impossible. We were then directed to try intrauterine insemination (IUI), which of course didn’t work. I kept saying to the doctors, “I obviously can GET pregnant; I just can’t seem to STAY pregnant. What will IUI do? I’ll lose it again!” 

When we began in vitro fertilization (IVF), I began to spiral in a deep well of guilt. My party days began to flash before my eyes. I braced for the moment a doctor would tell me my uterus was so toxic from all the drugs and alcohol that no baby would hang around in there for long. I was waiting for one of these many doctors to enter the examination room with a stern look and tell me that my uterus may as well have a wristband from a nightclub swaddled around it. 

I would envision this doctor tipping his glasses and saying, “Shit is an absolute nightmare of a MESS in there, lady!” his judgment of my life and choices making us both shudder. All of my past behavior during late nights came rushing back to haunt me: I could not stop blaming myself. I must have brought this on myself, I thought. I must have.

IVF became torture. My body would not respond to The stimulation phase injections (stims), and my retrievals often got canceled. My AMH (anti-müllerian hormone) was not great, my FSH (follicle stimulating hormone) was too high, my uterine lining was too thin, and my follicle count was low. We took breaks for months because, emotionally, I was becoming unhinged and that certainly wasn’t helping matters, either. The months turned into years; we changed clinics, and I had surgery to remove adhesions. 

I had a few IVF cycles that worked, but lost the baby before the heartbeat again. At this point, we just completely buried our heads in the sand about the number of IVF cycles and just tried to maintain optimism (sanity). Our last fertility clinic decided that we should do as many retrievals as it would take to try and collect at least eight embryos, get them all tested for genetic abnormalities, and then freeze them. It took us a year to get eight, and when we had genetic testing, only two were normal. Shit.

Frustrated yet still optimistic, we transferred both normal embryos. We embarked upon the dreaded two-week wait and received a phone call with “the good news.” My hCG blood test revealed a very high number! I began to Google why this number was so high. Did it mean that my pregnancy was stable? Did it mean that I had twins? What? Over the next few days, the hCG tripled. We could see the yolk sac, and there were two, yep two embryos. Twins! My husband allowed himself to be happy, but I did not. I reasoned to myself that maybe one would make it—one was enough! Just let my body hold on to one!

I miscarried before my next doctor's visit. I was beyond numb, beyond sad. I was hopeless and ready to quit. The pain was too much. My husband came to my rescue and convinced me to keep the faith: let’s keep trying, but take a break first. I agreed. When we returned to IVF several months later, we had about six more cycles resulting in some chemical pregnancies or “spontaneous abortions”—a term I am not fond of by any stretch. I had an abortion in my teens—and this term did not fit. That was a choice—a choice people should always have—but I did not choose this.

The word devastated does not seem to capture how we were feeling. Empty? Broken? Unexplained infertility was all they could say. Wow, thank you, doctor; I could have told you that! 

I asked my husband how long we would subject ourselves to this disappointment and how long we could afford this. He looked at me and said, “We will stop when we have our baby if you are up for it.” Through an outpouring of tears, I nodded, and our journey continued.

One day, the Google Gods were in my favor, and I stumbled across an article about recurring pregnancy loss (RPL) that changed everything. The article had stories of numerous women who had endured what I had. Like myself, some had over eleven losses and were burning through their life savings. Shit, I thought, this article could have been written about me! I feverishly read through the article until I found the name I knew I needed next: Doctor Braverman. 

Dr. Jeffrey Braverman worked in upstate New York, a 45-minute train ride from the city. I immediately dialed his number to make an appointment. I was flying high: the nurse was fantastic, taking all my information and coordinating obtaining my records from my current clinic. Dr. Braverman no longer did IVF himself but worked alongside clinics with his tailored protocol, would this be okay? Of course, I booked an appointment and my heart began to race. Could this be our chance? Our hope? My mind began to race: Why did it take so long to find this man? Why hadn’t my clinic revealed that someone out there specifically dealt with my issues? Was it about the money? I pushed the negative thoughts from my mind and focused on my success. For the first time in a long time, I felt sincerely hopeful.

Dr. Braverman who used a controversial (at the time) protocol involving Intralipid and IVIG infusions to help sustain a pregnancy. At our appointment, he explained how some people have an overactive immune system, which means the body instinctively rejects foreign tissue. This, naturally made it difficult for an embryo to implant. So how do you fix it? In short, you suppress your immune system long enough for a fetus to survive. After more bloodwork and tests on both of us, my husband and I were informed we were good candidates for the protocol. I finally let myself breathe a sigh of relief.

On our first attempt with this miracle doctor, we transferred four embryos and became pregnant. Once again, it was twins. I stayed cautious in my optimism. This time, we made it to heartbeat, but only one was strong. I was crushed: would I miscarry the other if the weaker baby didn’t make it? I was confused and had no clue how that would work. I was told the healthy twin would absorb the other and become a “vanishing twin.” A sacrificial hero so the other could soldier on. And he did.

The protocol was intense and laborious, but I never complained. For five months, I had weekly infusions to maintain this miracle baby. And a few months later, he was born.

Eight years on, and I still feel elated that we made it. Dr. Braverman recently passed away, but I hope his practice continues to help people beat the odds and start their families. All of our bodies are different, and require different things to overcome infertility. It’s and endless slog of a road sometimes. But what were those holistic practices and requested medical procedures that gave me hope? What were my coping mechanisms (beyond nightly primal screams)? Well you’ll have to keep reading for that. Again, your mileage may vary on the efficacy of the below, but, hey: I’ll try to make it funny! Because who wants to read a textbook, y’know?