Told you so, p.19
Told You So, page 19
I show Hudson a picture of me and Jacob at BYU.
Jacob explains that Hudson had a different daddy, who died. He tells him that this means Hudson has two dads. Jacob makes it sound like a really positive thing. What kid wouldn’t want two dads?
“Do you have any questions about any of this?” I ask.
Hudson doesn’t. He’s totally happy to get the news, but also eager to get back to playing with Legos. Jacob and I let him go, then look at each other on the couch, relieved.
SIXTY-THREE
JACOB AND I START TALKING about having another kid. We don’t want too big of an age gap between Hudson and his little sibling, and since we know we’re going to need to do IVF for genetic reasons, it seems like we should start the process, since we have no idea how long it’ll take. I’m privileged to have good insurance through my job, which means we can almost afford it. We know it will still be challenging, but I don’t think either of us expects it to be so hard.
The first hurdle is finding a good clinic. Jacob and I don’t really know what we’re looking for, so we find one that’s popular in Utah. Going into the process, I’m afraid of the shots. I hate needles. I assume injecting myself with hormones will be the worst part.
But I quickly learn that what’s actually hard are the unknowns. Jacob and I have no idea how long IVF will take. We don’t even know if it’ll work. And even with my benefits from Goldman Sachs, it costs a huge amount of money, so there’s this massive financial burden you’re taking on without any guaranteed success.
My first appointment is easy enough: a check to see how many follicles I have. Next is the saline ultrasound. Using a catheter, the doctor shoots saline into my cervix while I have my feet in stirrups. The girl who does the procedure literally wears a headlamp while she’s rooting around down there.
Afterward, Jacob and I get bad news. There are polyps on my uterus that I might need to get surgically removed. I feel scared—of the surgery, of the shots, of the wait after my eggs and Jacob’s sperm are combined, of the genetic testing. Half the embryos people make won’t last more than five days. What if none of ours do?
And I feel a little like a fraud. When you tell people you’re doing IVF, everyone assumes it’s because you can’t get pregnant, but there are so many other good reasons to do it, many of them private and personal. Even though I plan to document the experience on social media, I don’t want to have to tell my twelve thousand followers exactly why Jacob and I are doing IVF. I share so much of my life already. Jacob and I want this to be private. Still, I want to be honest, especially if it helps other people going through similar things. It’s a complicated balance. I decide to film the process but post the videos in the future in case something goes wrong. I set up my camera when Jacob gives me shots every morning at six a.m. I film some of the blood draws, too, but I get them so often I don’t tape them all.
* * *
MY INSURANCE SAYS THEY’LL cover $30,000 of the process. At first, we think that should be more than enough, especially because IVF meds alone typically cost around $7,000.
But there are all these hidden costs. It’s incredibly frustrating. I don’t understand how the fertility pharmacies get away with charging people so much more than the stated price. The whole thing is unethical. One night, when I’m feeling frustrated, I download TikTok. I don’t really understand it, but I like scrolling through the videos, and occasionally, Cassidy and I send each other funny ones. It’s a nice way to stay connected now that we don’t work together anymore.
Over the next couple weeks, while I’m feeling anxious about the IVF process and unable to read about egg retrievals and statistics anymore, I upload silly videos for fun. I’m starting to imagine making a living as a content creator, but not on TikTok. I’m focused on Instagram. I don’t really get TikTok. And I have no following there.
A few weeks later, I’m sitting in bed, mentally preparing myself for my egg retrieval, when I hear the sound of someone throwing up. It’s Jacob. He has a stomach bug. I assume this means my surgery is off. I won’t be able to go under anesthesia if I get sick. For three days, I sanitize the entire house. I literally shiver each time I hear the sound of Jacob throwing up upstairs. Empty boxes of Clorox wipes pile up in the garage. I hate the idea of having to reschedule my appointment. And I’ve had a phobia of throwing up since I was a little kid.
The day of the surgery, I make Jacob wear a mask and keep his distance. We get to the clinic thirty minutes early. The anesthesiologist is cocky; he gives me something to relax. Jacob leaves the room, I pass out, and the next thing I know, the anesthesiologist is walking me down the hall to recovery. My stomach hurts. It feels like I got repeatedly punched in the gut.
After ten minutes, the doctor comes in and sits across from me. He says we got nine eggs. My brain can’t process that. I’ve heard about women getting thirty or forty. I was expecting at least twenty, and so was he.
I say, “Nineteen?”
“Nine,” he says.
“What happened?”
He doesn’t have an answer. I feel exhausted and scared. Because Jacob and I are doing IVF for genetic reasons, we know some of the embryos won’t be viable. We’re both worried we’re going to have drained our savings for nothing. I go home, where I scroll through IVF message boards online. Other women all say the shots made them feel horrible. I haven’t loved them, but I haven’t felt that bad, either, and I wonder if I haven’t taken enough meds. I feel defeated. The shots, the blood draws, the time, the money—it was all for nothing.
The next day, I go to work with a heating pack pressed against my stomach. I’m sitting at my desk when I get a call. Two out of the nine eggs are dead.
I get another call later that day: five of the remaining seven eggs have been fertilized. Now we have to wait to see if any of those will make it to the blastocyst stage. It’s agony. But after a few days, we hear from the clinic that one has made it and two more might. In the end, they both do, and all three are sent off for genetic testing, which will take two weeks. I count down the days. I can’t imagine doing this process all over again. I can’t imagine the waiting, or the shots, or finding another $30,000.
SIXTY-FOUR
IT’S MARCH 2020, AND THE world is shutting down. Every day, I pick up the phone to see if my genetic testing results are back. On the eighteenth, which is a Wednesday, I learn that my results are finally ready. The doctor is in a meeting, but will call me back. He phones Jacob an hour later. Jacob’s out getting gas, but he conferences me in. The doctor says we have one embryo that’s healthy and ready for a transfer. I feel so excited, I cry. When Jacob gets home, we celebrate. I want to celebrate every part of this pregnancy because I didn’t get to with Hudson. There’s no shame or guilt this time. Just joy.
It doesn’t last long. I’m depressed about the pandemic. I don’t like germs under the best circumstances, and this feels devastating and terrifying. On top of that, the lockdown protocols mean we don’t even know when we’ll be able to transfer the healthy embryo. I hate all the waiting.
One day, when I’m stressed-out and stuck at home, I find a video of Hudson playing baseball and saying, “You bitch!” It’s not the right content for my Instagram. It’s too silly, and I don’t want anyone to mom-shame me. So I upload it to TikTok for fun, where it goes viral. I gain sixty thousand followers overnight. It took me almost a year to go from two thousand to ten thousand followers on Instagram, so I’m totally taken by surprise.
The marketer in me wants to be strategic, but as far as I can tell, brands aren’t really using TikTok yet, so I’m not sure what to do with my new audience. I decide to keep posting. Maybe TikTok will become the new Instagram. Plus, I’m stuck at home and bored, and I love making videos. So why not share them?
By May, I’m putting up two videos a day. It’s a good distraction from the lockdown and from waiting for my transfer. And my follower count keeps growing.
I start making friends through TikTok. That’s where I get in touch with Mikayla, who’s also posting about being a mom in Utah. I see her videos and think she seems sweet. And I want more mom friends! I’m mostly hanging out with people who don’t have kids.
The first time Mikayla and I meet in person, she’s so quiet and standoffish that I wonder if she hates me. But we become real friends almost immediately after that. We make gingerbread houses and watch The Bachelor and talk about juggling work, family, and TikTok. Mikayla is the best. I absolutely love her.
* * *
AT THE END OF May, I do my transfer. When I take a pregnancy test five days later, it’s positive. After all the money, the worry, and the oil progesterone injections that needed to be heated and left bruises all over my butt, Jacob and I are having a baby. IVF worked.
I yell for him to come upstairs and look at the test, and then I cry. This feels so different from the two pregnancy tests I took in college. Hugging Jacob in our bathroom, the test on the counter, I feel for that girl who sobbed for hours in the dark shower, convinced her life was over. I wish I could go back in time to show her this moment. Everything is coming together. I have a husband, I’m pregnant with my second baby, I like my job, and I’m helping people through my social media. I’m incredibly grateful.
* * *
A COUPLE WEEKS LATER, Jacob makes pasta for dinner. It looks gross. I eat it anyway, then sit on the air vent to help with my nausea while I finish work. I have bad cramps. I hunch over my laptop, while Jacob takes Hudson to the park. At some point, I go upstairs to pee. I’m on my way back down when I feel something wet. I assume it’s the suppository I’ve had to take as part of the IVF treatments, but I stick a finger into my underwear to make sure. When I pull it out, it’s red and dripping.
Alone on the stairs, I scream, “Fuck.”
I call Jacob, then our nanny. She comes over so Jacob and I can go to the emergency room. While we wait for an ultrasound, I’m terrified I’m miscarrying; that Jacob and I are going to lose our baby. Our one healthy embryo.
When I finally get a vaginal ultrasound, Jacob and I see a heartbeat. The anxiety isn’t gone, but it’s better.
I go to the IVF clinic the next day to make sure my HCG levels are rising. They are, but I get put on pelvic rest. No biking. No sex. Nothing strenuous. When I get my next ultrasound, the tech finds a hematoma. It’s big—bigger than the sac the baby is in. But it’s in the best possible spot. An inch to the right or the left, and I would’ve miscarried.
I try not to obsess about it. I still feel worried, but I remember that my body is meant to carry a baby. I think about drinking when I was pregnant with Hudson, and taking steroids for my injured labrum. That pregnancy turned out fine. I tell myself this one will too.
SIXTY-FIVE
WHEN I GET A LITTLE further along in my pregnancy, I decide I want a nice stroller: the Nuna. I become fixated on it. I’m convinced it’ll make my life perfect. I email the brand multiple times. Nobody from Nuna responds. I keep trying. Eventually, I get in touch with someone there, and we go back and forth. They don’t seem particularly interested in me until I tell them I have a TikTok with two hundred thousand followers. I tell them I’ll post about them, and they send me a stroller and a car seat in exchange for being featured in three videos. A feature is way easier than an ad. I don’t really have to do anything other than tag them.
Jacob and I celebrate the Nuna deal by grabbing pizza from our favorite place. Those car seats and strollers are expensive, and we still don’t have a lot of money. This is a big win for us. I feel like I’ve manifested something.
As my pregnancy progresses, I get more offers. Hostess reaches out to me. So does a grocery brand. Most of these deals are for less than a thousand dollars. The brands still don’t seem to fully understand TikTok’s reach.
But I start making good money as an influencer. It’s not enough to quit Goldman Sachs, which I like anyway. It’s certainly not enough to support a growing family. But for someone who used to be on food stamps, it’s something.
* * *
A COUPLE MONTHS LATER, I find out my baby, whom we’ve named Harlow, is breech. I really want a v-bac (vaginal birth after cesarean). I want that experience of having a vaginal birth, which I didn’t get with Hudson, but Harlow won’t budge. To cheer me up, Jacob says we should look at houses together. We’ve never had a conversation about buying our own place, but suddenly we’re serious about it. We drive around and talk about if we want to pull the trigger or not.
Six weeks later, Harlow is born via C-section. Giving birth with a partner is magical. I’ve never been so in love with Jacob. He helps me get into the shower at the hospital, changes every one of Harlow’s diapers, makes sure I have enough food and water, and asks the nurses to teach him how to swaddle. He’s the perfect newborn daddy. I’m so grateful.
When we get home, he’s the one who notes Harlow’s poops and pees and how often she eats. He’s the one who protects my space.
* * *
I DIDN’T HAVE POSTPARTUM anxiety after Hudson. I was just so relieved to have him by my side. To get to love him. To know God was done testing me.
But with Harlow, it’s harder. When my parents leave Utah after her birth, I lose it. I start crying and can’t stop. Jacob calls my mom because he’s so worried about me.
* * *
AS THE WEEKS GO on, my anxiety gets worse. I do everything I can to hide it, but I’m overcome by panic attacks multiple times a day. I convince myself I have brain cancer, that Hudson’s going to be hurt in a school shooting, that Harlow will stop breathing in her sleep. My stomach always hurts. I lose too much weight. I’m skinnier than I was in high school. This makes me even more worried. I’m convinced there’s something really wrong with me; that I’m going to die and leave Jacob behind with two kids. I look forward to the end of each day, just so I can go to bed and not have to feel this way.
It’s funny, because on paper, my life is the best it’s ever been. I’ve overcome all these struggles. I have a husband I love, a growing career, two beautiful kids, friends who make me feel seen—even my dream stroller. But my anxiety makes me miserable. I feel like, any second, I’m going to lose everything. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen people die too young and know it can happen in an instant. I become terrified my life will fall apart.
When I was training for tennis and would get tired while sprinting on the treadmill, I’d speed it up instead of slowing down. My instinct has always been to push myself harder when I’m closest to my breaking point. That’s how I approach my life postpartum. I throw myself into parenting, work, and my TikTok, which is still growing. I hope, if I’m busy enough, the anxiety will just go away.
* * *
IT DOESN’T, BUT WHEN Harlow is two months old, I make a video about my life story. I know before I post it that it’s going to go viral. There are certain videos that I know will strike a chord—usually the ones that make me cry while I’m editing. This one gets over 20 million views—the most I’ve ever gotten.
That week, three managers reach out to me. Jacob and I take the meetings together. Each of these managers tell me I am going to be something. The one I sign with, Danielle, says that my lifelong dream to write a book is not just possible, but that it will happen with time. I like that she assumes the sale. That’s the kind of confidence I want on my team.
I’m still working full-time at Goldman Sachs. I’m breastfeeding Harlow, too, which means I’m pumping at work. Twice a day, I sit in the pumping room, each time for thirty minutes. It’s not enough. Most days, my boobs ache. I need to pump for a third time before driving home, but I can’t bear to be away from Hudson and Harlow for an extra half hour. Plus, I’m starting to make more money from social media than I do at my job. Even though I really like and appreciate Goldman Sachs, I decide I want to go somewhere a little chiller. So I find a job at New U Life as a marketing manager. I tell myself I’m going to use the job to focus on influencing and managing my anxiety. Maybe, by working from home more, I’ll be able to relax. I’ll be able to settle into a routine as a parent of two kids who shares her life online.
SIXTY-SIX
I’M STANDING IN A ROOM surrounded by women in Santa Claus–themed lingerie. My beige sweater dress, which I thought was appropriate for the Christmas girls’ night my realtor’s girlfriend invited me to, makes me feel matronly and out of place.
Across the room, Taylor, whom I’ve been following on TikTok for two years but never met in person, is drinking and posting about wanting to kiss girls on her TikTok Live. She doesn’t seem that interested in meeting me.
I make eye contact with her and say, “Hi!” She smiles at me. I tell her we’ve been following each other on social media for a while.
She’s like, “Oh, we have? What’s your name?”
It’s awkward. Miranda, whom I’ve also never met in person, is drinking too, but she seems nice and normal. We talk for a while. She says I should come make videos with her and Taylor. I don’t know if I’m hot enough to do their content. I mostly post about being a mom, and I definitely don’t wear crop tops anymore.
“Oh yeah that would be fun,” I say, looking back over at Taylor.
Miranda says she wants to film a TikTok right now. All the girls at the party are down. I borrow a red dress, and then Miranda gets everyone together—all the lingerie Santa Clauses, plus me in my borrowed dress—and she asks us to do something sexy. I’m like, What is sexy? I’ve spent the last six months anxious that I have literal brain cancer. I run my arm down the stairs while everyone else grinds on each other. I’m so embarrassed. But also, I realize, I’m having fun.
