Sixteen Failed IVF Transfers, Miscarriages and International Surrogacy

On 5 July 2019 at 11.49 am, our beautiful son Spencer John Wilson was born through surrogacy. It was a long journey and like most things worth fighting for, it was a hard one.

I once counted how many times I had injected myself with artificial hormones: 700 times. And that was the easiest part. The injections didn’t come close to the heartache and unrelenting disappointment that followed.

By the end we had sixteen failed IVF transfers; four failed IUI transfers; seven egg retrievals; three miscarriages; and two international surrogacy experiences.

But we now have our beautiful son Spencer. So, I would do it all again.

My husband Ryan and I married in 2011 and soon after, decided to try for a family.

Being in our early thirties then, we naively thought it would be easy. But after about a year, we knew something wasn’t right.

And so, our infertility journey began. After failed Clomid and IUI cycles, we started IVF.

For me, IVF was a roller coaster of emotions. Some weeks I felt despair, anger, and guilt – Why can’t I do the one thing women are supposed to be able to do? Other weeks, I was optimistic and full of adrenalin.

Looking back, we played our first IVF appointment all wrong. We sat there politely nodding, occasionally asking a question and agreeing with all the answers.

If I had my time over, I would have a list of questions and I wouldn’t accept platitudes like “it’s not a matter of if but when”.

After a few failed transfers and an ectopic pregnancy, suddenly my transfers kept getting cancelled because of my ‘thin endometrium lining’.

My lining was always about 6mm at transfer and as 6mm is the requirement in Australia, I didn’t think much of it. But it was after a few cancelled cycles, I researched it. And wow did I find out a lot!

Namely, the lining is crucial to falling pregnant and sustaining a pregnancy. As the wallpaper of the uterus, it becomes thicker with pregnancy so it’s ready to receive an embryo and support the placenta.

An optimum lining is 10-12mm at transfer. On our cancelled cycles, my lining measured late 4mm’s. On the ones that went ahead, it was 5.5-6mm. But with a lining around 6mm, it’s extremely difficult to conceive.

We changed to an implantation specialist, and he hit us with the hard truth: thin linings are rare, usually genetic, and difficult to fix.

One question raced through my mind: Why have we not been told this sooner? I felt a sense of betrayal from our previous specialist. I angrily thought back to the time, money, and mental energy we had already wasted.

He then told us surrogacy was our best chance of success.

At work that week I felt deflated, but I told no one. Meanwhile, a colleague had a sports injury and he got lots of support. Completely fair enough. But it really highlighted to me the silence of infertility.

Whenever someone has an illness or injury, they often share their news as they rely on their friends and family for support. The World Health Organization defines infertility as a reproductive disease. Yet many people hide it.

I often was regrettably too worried about people’s opinions. Our good friends and family were always sensitive. But once people knew outside our close circle, there were many hurtful comments.

People would say: “have you tried relaxing?” or “it will happen when you stop trying”. I know most people were trying to help but a big regret of mine is not speaking up more with the medical facts.

Not ready to close the door on being pregnant myself, we pushed ahead with a transfer on a lining of 6mm and we fell pregnant.

The high was enormous. But the next day, dread set in. Yes, my lining was ‘just’ thick enough, but it wasn’t ideal.

At our first scan at 7.5 weeks, we had the devastating news our baby’s heartbeat was too slow. Two days later at our follow up scan, she had passed.

We were absolutely crushed.

Shortly after my D&C procedure, our specialist called with the biopsy results. The baby was perfect. The baby was a girl. I wish I hadn’t found out the gender but above all else, it was confirmation the issue was me.

Each collection, our specialist would retrieve an above average number of eggs for my age and when tested for chromosome abnormalities, most tested normal.

So, it wasn’t the embryos that were the problem. It was the carrier. It was me.

It was time to explore surrogacy. We started in Canada with Julie, a selfless woman who felt compelled to help us. A long flight (18 hours) for the transfer but it was such an important milestone.

What happened next still haunts me.

The day of the transfer, our specialist told us that devastating news that the container of embryos we had transported over was empty.

With a pounding heart and almost breathless, I kept asking him: “What do you mean by empty? Who can we call?”.

I remember the pity in his eyes, the sadness in his voice. No, we couldn’t call anyone. There was no one to call. They had opened the container to start the thaw, only to discover there were no embryos.

The embryos were gone. And any chance of having a baby was gone as well.

Transporting embryos is standard practice so what happened was extremely rare. Our lawyers and fertility clinics in Melbourne and Toronto had never heard of this ever happening

Back in Australia, we fortunately collected more embryos, and had three transfers in Canada. All failed. With heavy hearts, we knew we had to move on.

We pursued surrogacy in the United States, our last hurrah.

We had an instant bond with our beautiful US surrogate Leigha and her husband Josh. I will always be in awe of surrogates. How someone who doesn’t know you, hears your story and feels compelled to help you.

Our first transfer failed. But our US specialist, Dr Russell Foulk (Utah Fertility Center) had some good insights and our second transfer worked.

We heard the heartbeat at our eight-week scan, and we all felt at peace.

We decided not to Skype in for our 10-week scan as it was at 3am. I awoke early but there were no messages. I had an awful feeling something was wrong. I then saw a message on Ryan’s home screen: “I’m so sorry but we’ve lost the baby”.

We were all heart broken.

I wanted to scream and cry and be done with the whole thing. With every set back, I was determined to fight. But this time the fight had vanished. I was struggling to accept we were here again.

But we had some good embryos left and Leigha was determined to keep going. Ryan reiterated everything Dr Foulk had said about how the miscarriage was rare (sub chronic hematoma) and unlikely to happen again. We tried one last time.

Nine months later, our beautiful son Spencer was born.

Infertility can be brutal, raw, and often lonely. It’s frequently misunderstood. But for anyone struggling with infertility, you are not alone. There are many of us out there. Find those people. Talk to them. Surround yourself with love and support. Don’t suffer in silence.

Bio – Kirsten McLennan

Hi, my name is Kirsten. I live in Melbourne, Australia with my husband Ryan and our beautiful son Spencer. Spencer was born in July 2019 through surrogacy in the United States I’m a Mum, Communications practitioner, writer, and advocate for infertility awareness. I’m passionate about raising awareness about infertility so that it’s more openly discussed and understood. Through sharing my story, I hope to help others who are suffering with infertility. You can follow me on Instagram.

Medical Disclaimer:

The information provided in this blog is intended for general informational purposes only and should not be considered as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your healthcare provider or qualified medical professional with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read in this blog.