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Before you do an IVF cycle, before any shots or pills or surgical procedures, the doc makes you sign an encyclopedia-size pile of consent forms. These forms are designed, I can only assume, to protect the clinic in the event of a mishap, complication, or misunderstanding. 

What's so striking about these consent forms though, and our willingness to sign them, is they quite blatantly state that the odds are this procedure will not work. And it's also possible that something will go wrong in the process, either now or eventually down the road when we figure out what all of this hormone manipulation actually does to us. Infection, vaginal bleeding? Bring it on. An increased risk of uterine cancer? They'll have a cure for that soon, right?

Yet, we still sign. I still sign. Heck, most of the time, I don't even bother reading the consents anymore. I may have very well initialed away our home or our beloved family pet this afternoon. But it's worth it. Why? Because we have an opportunity to create a life--an honor that trumps all other risks or likelihoods. I consent to weight gain, blood clots, and the dangerous accumulation of fluid in the abdomen if it means I might, although unlikely, have a baby at the end of it. I consent.

 





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    My Story

    Infertility has been messing with my family for the past five years. We've seen amazing highs and the most heartbreaking of lows; but with each passing cycle, we've grown a little closer, a little crazier, and a little more willing to just eat the freaking pineapple core. 

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