What My Collection of Hospital Socks from Many Failed IVF Cycles Taught Me About Grief and Luck

Saving my hospital socks during infertility was a balm for my grief. They taught me a lesson about how possessions can define us, and what it means when our relationship with them changes

“Scooch down a bit,” a kind voice requested. I looked at my feet, precariously placed on cold, metal contraptions, and shimmied my body toward my fertility doctor, stretching my toes inside their socks. I’d been here before, many times, yet there was nothing routine about it.

The socks I wore were always the same beige color. Once I had a teal pair, which elicited a moment of excitement. The fabric wasn’t particularly tough against the skin, but too universally manufactured to be soft. The bottoms had little white, raised bubbles—grips like road markers on a highway. They were for stability during walks down the hospital hallways, or better traction when feet moved into awkward positions, onto silver pedals. Every pair was individually wrapped in clear plastic for each new participant, not intended for more than one usage before disposal.

Back in the dressing room, I removed the nondescript, bluish gray robe tied around me like a wrap dress and tossed it in the fertility clinic’s hamper. I threw away the paper-thin cap that held my hair back. But instead of tossing the socks in the garbage too, per the instructions, I shoved them into my handbag, as if I was stealing a clue from the scene of the crime, half trophy, half sadistic souvenir. It wasn’t the first time I’d taken them with me.

I’d gone through seven egg retrievals, the procedure in IVF when a patient’s eggs are carefully extracted from the body while under anesthesia, then mixed with sperm to hopefully create perfect, genetically healthy embryos. It was an in-depth process I’d become accustomed to undergoing.

It began by answering questions probed by various people who introduced themselves one after the other. A nurse inserted an IV and covered me in a warm, weighted blanket before accompanying me into a cold, brightly lit room, a place I’d soon expose myself mentally and physically in ways I never imagined. When it was all over, there was juice, graham crackers, and a piece of paper with an arbitrary number totaling the number of eggs extracted from my body.

I’d been shown seven pieces of paper over two and a half years, never with any numbers worthy of jubilation. Seven short chapters of my life with endless waiting, dreaming, and tortuous hours wondering about things, and numbers I couldn’t control.

Another ubiquitous part of the process —required not only for fertility treatments, but any surgery—were those ugly hospital socks. In the infertility world, though, they weren’t just an obligatory, clinical covering, they were a focal point, endlessly included in recommendations or potential success tips:

“Keep your feet warm at all times!”

“Never ever dream of going barefoot!”

A warm foot supposedly equals a warm uterus, which is most conducive to creating a baby. According to any article, or Instagram caption, forgoing this advice could come at a hefty price.

For many, these very common accessories represented a badge of survival or triumph over hardship. They were a symbol of soldiering through infertility, under the guise of merch. Intended to display a person’s personality, or status on social media. Women showed off pineapples on their heels, or scripted words like “Hopeful Mama,” or “Stick, Baby, Stick.” An entire, intense, traumatic experience condensed down to a phrase capable of fitting on the bottoms of each foot.

I never had interest in this kind of insincerely felt merchandise. But at a fertility event I attended, a gift bag contained a candle, bath bomb, and a pair of pink, fuzzy socks, emblazoned, of course, with the company logo: Cozy Warriors. I caved and gave them a try.

I abhorred constrictions in bed. I always had bare feet and kept one leg outside the blanket, comforted by the sensation of cold air hitting my skin as I slept. But for me, infertility was about the constrictions of things that were once pleasurable. So I gave up that feeling and, as advised, kept my feet warm, even through the sticky air of summer.

I wore the Cozy Warrior socks to my first, anticipated embryo transfer. After four arduous treatments, I’d finally made one healthy embryo. “It only takes one,” is another quote thrown around in the infertility industry that’s meant to elicit hope and a sense of power. I convinced myself I’d been cynical or jaded before. It only took one, and maybe the pink socks really were a life-changing good luck charm, capable of manifesting my goal of motherhood.

As I prepared for my embryo transfer at the clinic, I went through the same mechanical steps. This time, I dismissed the sad plastic-covered socks offered by the hospital in favor of the personal pink ones I’d excitedly brought from home. They were soft and smooth on my feet. Wearing them, I felt more hopeful than ever.

Ten days later, I got the news that it failed, and I wasn’t pregnant. I threw the socks away, distraught and angry. I knew the choice to wear or not wear them wasn’t the deciding factor of my outcome. But the loss of an embryo is a terrible, ambiguous grief that requires something tangible to blame. I wished I’d never worn them. “Warrior, please,” I muttered, annoyed I’d allowed myself to give the accessories so much power over me.

I continued IVF after that, but returned to my predictable, generic coverings. Yet I still couldn’t stop myself from saving them. My sock drawer was eventually filled to the brim with 10 pairs, from seven egg retrievals and three embryo transfers.

After each cycle, I brought them home, along with the flimsy, plastic hospital name tag bracelets, the way one would keep a concert ticket or movie stub. Each time I prayed the next pair I wore would be the ones that went in the scrapbook later, an identifier of the day I became a mom. But they never were, all seemingly destined to exist in a heap inside my dresser.

If grief is a souvenir of pain, or lost love, then the socks were an outlet for saved trauma. Stored away just as tightly as my memories, a brutal reflection of my failures. Simultaneously, they were a warped way of staying hopeful, and I couldn’t let go. I’d thought of them as tools of manifestation. As if saving them could somehow ensure success or mark a transformative moment I could tangibly touch, like a teddy bear, or pair of baby socks.

But manifestation isn’t as simple as plain old longing, and wishing for something desperately still didn’t make it so, no matter how many Law of Attraction memes or messages insist otherwise. Putting faith in a pair of beige, plain socks that I wore while my hopeful embryo was implanted inside me started as an act of magical thinking.

During infertility there is a lack of control over almost everything. I’d convinced myself keeping all those socks was giving me back some of the control over my future status as a parent. But as the collection grew, cynicism started to dominate my faith.

I became so numb to my own routine that it was only after my fourth embryo transfer that I realized I hadn’t taken that day’s socks with me. Whether subconsciously purposeful, or just plain forgetfulness, I wasn’t sure. At first, I mourned my mistake. What had I done?! I wailed to myself.

Still bruised by the fumble, I soon processed my error. I reflected on the huge collection of IVF socks I’d amassed over the last few years and started to see them differently. They weren’t agents of change, or action; they were just physical souvenirs I’d given too much weight. Once I started to see them differently, the power I’d attributed to them lessened, and the need to symbolize everything about my experience dissipated. A pair of socks couldn’t manifest my destiny or put me in control of it. All I had was my hope, whatever was left of my positivity, and my ability to wait.

Ten days later I got the call. It worked; I was pregnant. I gave birth to my daughter the following summer. I’d collected countless hospital socks thinking they would somehow radiate good luck that would bring me a baby. But they were more than just would-be manifestation tools. Each pair, from every failed IVF cycle, was like a strange little souvenir that symbolized my effort and resilience.

Now, I have a new collection—baby shoes. In the end, it was the socks I didn’t collect and save that wound up being the most significant.

Blake Turck is a freelance writer and NYC native. She can be found most nights watching movies with her husband, Golden doodle, and baby daughter. She’s written for Slate, Washington Post, Today, Washington Post Travel, Los Angeles Times, HuffPost, HuffPost Voices, Travel + Leisure, Salon, Well + Good, and more.