When Your Doctor Fails You

I have spent the last few days trying to gather my thoughts because “overwhelmed” doesn’t even begin to describe what I am feeling.

Over the past several weeks, I have written about our decision to try IVF again.

Not because IVF is easy.

Not because I am excited to inject myself with medications again.

Not because I enjoy reliving years of disappointment, heartbreak, procedures, bloodwork, ultrasounds, waiting rooms, phone calls, and tears.

But because I am 38 years old.

Because I look at my daughter every day and feel an ache for the sibling I hope she might one day have.

Because if I don’t try, I know I will spend the rest of my life wondering what if.

My husband’s insurance covers three embryo transfers.

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When I first heard that, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Not certainty.

Not confidence.

Just hope.

The problem has never really been getting embryos.

The problem has always been getting me to the point where I can actually transfer one.

My body has never liked to cooperate.

Before my daughter, my greatest obstacle was my uterine lining. Cycle after cycle, I would watch numbers that seemed so insignificant determine whether I could move forward with treatment.

A few millimeters.

That was the difference between hope and heartbreak.

So when I decided to pursue treatment again, I knew there would be hurdles.

I expected my body to give me trouble.

I expected setbacks.

I expected disappointment.

What I did not expect was for my care team to become the obstacle.

Months ago, I completed pre-testing and was initially told I could begin a cycle.

Then I was told I couldn’t.

Not because of my body.

Not because of my labs.

Not because of anything medically wrong.

Because there wasn’t room.

One physician.

Too many patients.

No availability.

I remember sitting there trying to process what I was hearing.

This wasn’t a scheduling inconvenience.

For infertility patients, timing is everything.

We don’t get unlimited chances.

We don’t get unlimited cycles.

We don’t get unlimited years.

Every month matters.

Especially when you are 38.

Still, I told myself to be patient.

I told myself they were doing the best they could.

I waited.

I got my period on June 1.

I called immediately.

I followed every instruction exactly as I had been told.

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I started the process.

Insurance approvals became their own nightmare.

The estradiol wasn’t approved.

Hours were spent chasing paperwork and authorizations.

Eventually, that issue was resolved.

I thought we were finally moving forward.

I thought we were finally at the starting line.

Then the phone rang.

They had reviewed the schedule.

There was no room for me.

Again.

My second cycle missed.

Not because of my body.

Not because treatment failed.

Not because of bad luck.

Because they don’t have capacity.

I don’t think I can adequately describe how devastating that feels.

Infertility already makes you feel powerless.

You spend years feeling like your body is betraying you.

You watch other people get pregnant accidentally.

You watch people complain about pregnancies they never planned.

You watch people build families effortlessly while you schedule your life around blood draws and medications.

You learn to survive disappointment.

But this feels different.

This isn’t my body failing me.

This is my care team failing me.

And somehow that feels worse.

Because what am I supposed to do with that?

I cried.

I begged.

I asked if there was any way to squeeze me in.

Any way at all.

I emailed the physician directly.

To her credit, she called me.

But the answer was the same.

There is one physician.

There are too many patients.

There is no room.

Protocol is protocol.

And just like that, another month disappeared.

People hear “one month” and think it isn’t a big deal.

One month sounds reasonable.

One month sounds survivable.

But infertility isn’t experienced one month at a time.

It is experienced as years.

Years of waiting.

Years of planning.

Years of disappointment.

Years of wondering if your chance has already passed you by.

What makes this even harder is that we already transferred our embryos here.

We paid thousands of dollars over the years to create them.

We paid more money to transport them.

They’re here now.

Sitting in storage.

Waiting.

Just like I am.

And now I find myself trapped in a system that doesn’t seem capable of supporting the patients it continues to accept.

The explanation I keep hearing is that we live in a rural area.

I’m sorry, but I don’t buy that.

We came from another rural area.

We received excellent care there.

We had physicians.

We had communication.

We had access.

We were never made to feel invisible.

The issue isn’t geography.

The issue is capacity.

And patients are paying the price for it.

The hardest part is that there isn’t really another option.

Our insurance coverage is tied to this hospital.

If I leave, treatment becomes significantly more expensive.

So I stay.

I wait.

I hope.

And I try not to let bitterness consume me.

Thankfully, I have my daughter.

The little girl who took years to bring into this world.

The little girl who reminds me every single day why I continue fighting.

She has no idea what any of this means.

She doesn’t know about transfer schedules.

Insurance approvals.

Clinic capacity.

Embryo storage.

She just knows that her mama is there.

And honestly, some days that’s the only thing keeping me together.

I also want to thank everyone who continues to read these pieces.

Everyone who reaches out.

Everyone who has contributed through Venmo, our registry, kind messages, or simply by showing up here and reading.

You may never fully understand how much that support means during seasons like this.

Infertility is incredibly isolating.

So is motherhood.

So is unemployment.

So is feeling stuck.

Yet somehow this little community has made me feel less alone.

For now, all I can do is wait for another cycle.

Another month.

Another chance.

And hope that next time there is room for me.

Because after everything infertility has taken from me, I never expected to be defeated by a calendar.

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UPDATED BIO:

Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.

In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.

Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.

If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.

💸 Donate here — Venmo

🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.