When I made the choice to become a single mother by choice, there were things I knew and things I hoped.
I knew things were going to be tricky. I knew nothing in the baby-making process was going to be a freebie or happen on a whim. Everything would be orchestrated, timed, and fine-tuned—my very own scientific baby-making ballet conducted by a fertility specialist and assisted by an anonymous sperm donor.
I knew the process was going to be expensive. I live in Indiana where fertility insurance is not mandated—making every consultation, every scan, every pill, every blood draw out of my pocket—and with the hefty price tag for treatment, also pushing the generosity of my salary band. I knew I would need to dip into my savings—and begin moonlighting as an Uber driver to help cover my medical costs.
I hoped that science and my body would be a winning team—and that at the end of this extravaganza there would be a beautiful kicking and screaming baby in my arms.
What I didn’t know was that before I could truly even hope for the kicking and screaming beautiful baby—I would have to do a lot of kicking and screaming of my own first.
When I first started trying to conceive, I was 38 years old. My blood work and initial fertility testing were optimistic-ish. My Indiana-based fertility specialist recommended trying intrauterine inseminations (IUI) to start. It was the least invasive, least aggressive, and least expensive of the fertility options—and the one that made the most sense as a starting point for me.
My first IUI was a fail—so was my second—and so was my eighth. My fertility specialist couldn’t explain why the IUIs weren’t working. I would later learn I had low ovarian reserve—fancy speak for I had very few eggs left in my somewhat older basket.
Angela Hatem
My Indiana fertility specialist told me it was time to get aggressive—it was time for In Vitro Fertilization (IVF).
I was handed a binder stuffed with papers explaining the IVF process—pamphlets about high-interest IVF loans—and a single pricing sheet detailing the costs for one round of IVF. The cost for treatment was $20,000 plus—medications would be an additional $12,000—and the guarantee of a baby was 0.
I was crushed. I laid my head on the table and cried. I cried because I was scared and angry that my body was letting me down—that it wasn’t doing what I had thought of as one of its core jobs—and that I needed an aggressive treatment to even try for the life I wanted so badly.
Then I was pissed. Pissed that me—and folks like me—are expected to pay thousands upon thousands of dollars, without one dime of help from insurance. The more I sat with my new binder—the more pissed I became. No one chooses to be infertile—it’s not something anyone elects for—it’s not anything anyone wants to be. Infertility is something someone has to be treated for.
Scared, angry, pissed, and still hopeful to have the family I had been reaching for—I went home and Googled “Affordable IVF.” As I dug through the search results, I found a news story about a woman from Indiana who traveled to a clinic in Syracuse, NY called CNY Fertility.
She said that treatment at CNY was under $4,000—she talked about her beautiful twin babies—and with her story, she made me wonder if treatment and hope could live outside of my own backyard.
After meeting with the woman featured in the news story—consulting with other CNY patients—and doing more Google-related homework, I too became a travel patient of CNY Fertility.
Being a travel patient doesn’t just mean you are an out-of-towner—it makes you an uncertified travel agent, cruise director, psychic, and nurse of sorts.
To prep for my IVF cycle—I had to find local labs who could perform blood draws on a moment’s notice—I had to dig up an imaging center that performed ultrasounds on weekdays and weekends—I had to plan and predict travel from Indiana to Syracuse during a window of time without knowing an exact day—I had to work ahead for my job to ensure I wasn’t dropping balls at the office while I was driving the 644 miles to and from Syracuse—I had to mix and administer vials of fertility drugs daily—I had to coordinate infusions to be completed from anywhere I could.
Beyond the process planning, I also had to come up with IVF dollars and fast. While CNY was lightyears more affordable than my local clinic, treatment would still come at a cost. My side hustle as an Uber driver was helpful—but it wasn’t enough. I applied to be the Easter Bunny at the local mall—and while I got the job—the schedule didn’t work well with my 9-to-5 and Uber hours.
Looking to avoid any major credit card debt—I kept kicking and screaming.
To afford treatment, I applied for and received fertility grants—I took out a cash-out refinance on my house—and I took advantage of one of CNY’s in-house payment plans. If there was a quarter laying on the street, I picked it up. I looked for anything and took any opportunity that would help build my treatment and travel nest egg.
It was a lot—but surprisingly I didn’t feel overwhelmed—I felt purposeful. I felt like I finally had a small but sturdy say in my fertility destiny. As a participant versus a spectator in my healthcare, I felt empowered to ask questions and to question treatment decisions—to ask for options, to ask for help, to not say I was sorry for troubling someone when I was lost or confused about something medical or procedural. Something that I should have done—but never did at my local clinic.
It took about three months to coordinate and save—but I had my treatment dollars and my cycle plans were in place. It was time for my first IVF cycle to begin.
I say “First IVF Cycle” now—but at the time, I just said my “IVF Cycle”—because I was sure this would be it. I would have treatment—I would become pregnant—and baby and I would be a family.
But that’s not at all how it went.
There was a first IVF cycle—and then a second. There was no baby. I had undergone the most aggressive fertility treatment a person can undergo twice—and all I had at the end of each cycle was disappointment, anxiety, a deep sadness for all the things that could have been but never were—and a small but fading hope that I would become a mother.
As the reality and the acceptance of my situation began to settle, my determination began to throw its punches and fight its way back. For me, I wasn’t ready to lay down and say I tried. That wasn’t the line for me. I was determined to become a mother—and that meant through any path possible. I was now determined that once my fertility journey had ended, I would continue kicking and screaming about what this process is truly like and what it fully does to the families and friends of those who go through it.
So there I was—broken, determined, with injection bruises on my belly, arms, and hips—still scared, angry, pissed, and clinging to hope. I went into the CNY office for my third and final IVF cycle. This would be the last cycle I could afford financially and emotionally before moving on to whatever was next.
My third cycle went as they always did—medication, very few eggs to retrieve, very few embryos to implant, ten days to wait to know if it worked. I lived my life and tried to pretend the fate of my life wasn’t about to be decided.
On the day of my pregnancy test—I went in early for my blood draw, came home and crawled into my bed for a good cry—and to await my results.
Two hours later, my phone rang—and it was the nurse’s line at CNY. I answered the phone. The nurse sounded upbeat—which is not usually how nurses sound on my results day. The nurse asked me how I was. I told her she had to tell me how I was. She said, “You have an HCG of 137. You’re pregnant.”
As I write this now—I still cry and still can’t believe that this day and this life actually happened. I am a fertility warrior and survivor—a CNY graduate—and most importantly, proud mother to my five-year-old son, Wyatt.
I know my family and I wouldn’t be where we are today if it hadn’t been for CNY—or for me kicking and screaming every step of the way.
I learned in post-treatment that kicking and screaming for me would mean picking up my Communications degree, dusting it off, and writing about my experience and the experiences of others fighting infertility. I hope that in sharing my experience, the message that is needed lands where it needs to be.
My story isn’t for everyone. There are people who have read about me and my journey who judge, criticize, roll their eyes, and troll the steps I took toward motherhood. This story isn’t for them.
This is for the woman who is looking at a sea of fertility drugs and needles not knowing which to use—for the partner who is doing all they can but it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough—for the family who just maxed out their last credit card to pay the next round of IVF—for the parent, friend, or acquaintance who knows someone struggling with infertility and just doesn’t know what to do or how to help. This is for you.
Keep kicking and keep screaming—I hear you—and so will others.
Angela Hatem was born and raised in Homestead, Florida. Hatem is an IVF warrior, a proud CNY Fertility graduate, and a single mother by choice to her zany son, Wyatt. Hatem is a freelance contributor to Parents, Health, the TODAY Show, Business Insider, National Geographic, The Quill, and more.
All views expressed are the author’s own.
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