Things I Shouldn’t Tell You
CW: Infertility, miscarriage
My name is Caroline Miller and I am about to tell you all the things I should keep to myself. I’m telling you these things because they are amazing, and sad, and hilarious. And I’m telling you because I’m not the only one.
The first thing I shouldn’t tell you is that I was recently pregnant. Was. In fact, I had to rewrite this part because I joyously and nervously wrote about being in early pregnancy, about how many people keep it to themselves. Because they may miscarry. And then you have to tell everyone it’s gone.
“I feel like it wasn’t just my husband who got me pregnant. It was doctors and nurses and friends and chorus girls. My favorite part is the chorus girls. ”
It felt like a miracle and a fantasy and a blessing and a problem. I’m infertile, by way of endometriosis and a slight male factor, and I got pregnant after months and months of kind strangers saying hello before sticking a wand up my vagina to check on my antral follicles and praying that I didn’t get “Stabby the Nurse” that day. Poor Stabby is very kind but doesn’t realize she is one of the worst sticks in all of Manhattan. And this all happened against the backdrop of COVID and my first two out-of-town contracts singing after the lockdowns.
I feel like it wasn’t just my husband who got me pregnant. It was doctors and nurses and friends and chorus girls. My favorite part is the chorus girls.
I won’t get into the weeds about how terrible and heartbreaking infertility is because smarter, more eloquent people than me have covered that. But I will say, that as someone who uses her body for a living, feels comfortable taking physical chances, like challenging herself doing aerial for fun, and is in general good health, it feels like a slap in the face to find out that your body can’t do what everyone else, or what seems like everyone else, can.
Let’s compare:
—Have lots of sex for free.
—Pay thousands of dollars to get stuck literally hundreds of times in the arm for blood, the abdomen (by me) for follicle stimulation, and then in the butt (by whoever is present, this is where the chorus girls come in) and knowing it may not work!
Bodies. Women are taught to hate them. Singers are taught to worship them, and also hate them. I never feel more powerful or free than when I am singing, or pulling myself into the air. My body works really really well, except this one thing, apparently. It throws everything into question, including your own judgment, your understanding of self, and your faith in your instrument.
“Due to a disturbing cocktail of sexism and scarcity of work, getting pregnant as a singer can lead to issues with finding employment, especially for those in a similar situation as me.”
I was lucky that through all the hormones, through all the pills, injections, and blood draws, my voice didn’t change. Not more than it does during a period. What changed was my focus, grounding, my confidence. I’d find myself in rehearsal wondering, “Is this gonna work?” “And, if it does, if I get pregnant, will my career end?” Due to a disturbing cocktail of sexism and scarcity of work, getting pregnant as a singer can lead to issues with finding employment, especially for those in a similar situation as me. I’m not already famous, rather I’m a solidly middle-class working artist and a soprano. There are millions of me in the wings. Sometimes these thoughts helped by giving me perspective and strengthening my resolve, but often they simply provided a distraction.
There is all of this waiting and trying and pain and the knowledge that it might not work. And I can tell you from the other side, when you realize that it comes down to either saying it's over or starting all over again, the floor drops out. You question: “Is it worth it? Was it worth it? Will it be worth it?”
Here is what has carried me through:
Women.
And some men . . .
Unlike many, I was pretty open about my IVF journey. I didn’t announce it or tell all my family members, but I didn’t hide it for the most part. And you know what? Infertile women came out of the woodwork and showed up for me. A good friend of mine connected me with one of her infertile friends who has proceeded to text me nearly every day, even through the birth of her own daughter.
And it wasn’t just my fellow infertiles. I may have done the retrieval part of IVF in NYC, but I had to continue my IVF cycle, the transfer part, and the prep before it, out of town on a gig. Let me tell you, stabbing your own butt is logistically more difficult than one may realize. You have to twist around to get both hands on your backside, one on the syringe and one to stabilize the cheek, ready it for the stab! One must stab with some force and you have to be able to see the syringe because first, you have to pull it up a bit to check for blood. Suffice it to say, after one try of this on my own I realized I was going to need some help. As part of a medicated transfer cycle, you have to get Intramuscular (butt) shots every single night around the same time for weeks before and hopefully the first 10 weeks of pregnancy. . . I made it to 7. While out of town on the contracts, I found myself with a problem. My husband literally wasn’t allowed to be there because of covid, and I couldn’t do this on my own.
Enter . . . the chorus girls.
I realized I would need a lot from these women. Not only the obvious asking someone to inject you in your mostly naked butt, but I was missing my partner, my emotional support. I needed them to be my cheerleaders. So, I was pretty blunt and unapologetic when I asked a woman that smiled rainbows and hugged like fall that I not only needed her to inject me every night, I needed her to be excited about it. I needed it to feel like I wasn’t doing this alone. She didn’t bat an eye. Actually, she did, she cried. She said she felt so honored that I would trust her with this. Olivia will be part of my family forever now.
And she wasn’t the only one. It was pretty much an open secret throughout most of the chorus that I had to have these shots done every night. We would stop what we were doing every night at 9:45 pm to grab some ice and be back in 10 to 15 to continue euchre or poker or just movie watching with other castmates. Or, during dress rehearsals and performances, stealing a moment in the chorus dressing room to make sure I got my injection on time. One night Olivia wasn’t available, so another friend stepped in even though I knew needles made her uncomfortable. And then a third who continued on through my whole next contract in the same location.
“When I finally went in for my transfer, I felt like the whole opera chorus was in the room.”
When I went home between the two contracts, I was amused to find that my chorus girls were much better at giving the shot than my husband. They stabbed with the right speed and confidence, while poor Jesse didn’t want to hurt me and consequently did. I found myself coaching him, “this is where Olivia would say, ‘we are doing very well.’”
When I finally went in for my transfer, I felt like the whole opera chorus was in the room. It just had to work with so many people cosmically pulling for me.
And it did. I was pregnant. That embryo was inside of me for three opera performances and three choral/orchestral concerts. And then . . . I found out it never grew. It implanted and the gestational sac grew, but the embryo didn’t. And so, they took it out. And it was over. I had a D&C at seven weeks and one day. Now illegal in Texas. It saved me a great deal of trauma.
It was the only embryo from the retrieval cycle.
And now I’m grieving something that never was, except for that it was so much a part of my life. It connected me with all these people who loved me so freely and fully. I will never forget being backstage in the dressing room, exactly when I was due for my shot. I borrowed an icepack from the crew fridge in the shop, got permission from my friend Jennifer to use her private dressing room, and as Olivia did the shot and sang ‘row row row your boat’, Jennifer joined the round, and I thought, this is the most full and beautiful IVF experience a girl could have. It’s operatic.
I’m glad I told so many people because I needed them then, and I need them even more now. They keep me from crawling into my own devastation alone. They pull me back to hope and help me remember how much beauty there was in the pain. And because of them, I know I can do this again.
For all of those out there struggling with infertility and miscarriage—I know you’ve heard it before but I’m here to say it again—it’s not your fault, and you are not alone. And one way or another, you will have a beautiful full life. And in the meantime, cry as much as you need, and reach out when you are ready. I’ll be here, so will so many friends and family and powerful women.
