life, love, and maybe babies

Friday, August 8, 2014

Hindsight is 20/20

Hubs is a fertile turtle. He dated his ex in high school and she had PCOS, cysts on her ovaries, and was told quite conclusively that she would never, ever, ever bear children.

She got pregnant by Hubs not once, but twice. I mean, WTF?

So when Hubs and I got married, we were extra careful. I'm talking condoms, birth control, spermicidal lube. All of it. I wasn't taking any chances. At 26 I was not ready for a kid, especially as a new stepmom and wife. We were happy to wait.

And then, at 29, we were ready. So we pulled the goalie, expecting two pink lines after only a few months of trying. And then a few more. And then a few more. Nothing. Nada. I  made the mistake early on of telling everyone within ear shot that WE ARE GOING TO TRY AND HAVE A BABY! Naturally, everyone started paying close attention to my waistline, as well as my alcohol consumption. For the first few months it was fun, even cute. After about 10 months, it started to get old. I'd be at a party and get a beer and friends would joke, "guess no baby this month, eh?"

No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for the reminder.

Then came the advice. Oh, my God, the advice. 

"I know someone who knows someone who just quit trying and BAM! Pregnant! Have you just stopped trying?"

"What you need to do is lift your legs up after sex. Are you doing that? Are you leaving his stuff inside you overnight? Cuz if you pee it out, you won't get pregnant."

"You know what? You've got to do hot yoga and then make Hubs drink this weird brand of tea. I can't remember what it is, but I'll ask my friend. I'll have her call you. Her name is Destiny."

You can all identify with me. After a year of trying, you're past the "just stop trying" phase and into the paranoid, "what is going on here?" phase. You want answers from a doctor that does this for a living, not from your friend's aunt's hairdresser's psychic dog walker.

They tell alcoholics that admitting they have a problem is the first step to recovery. Being infertile is no different. You don't want to believe it. You don't even want to say it out loud. Who wants to admit that all those times (allegedly) in college, sitting up at 2:00 in the morning, clutching your roommate's hand and hoping the Morning After Pill worked were all unnecessary? Who wants to admit that something isn't right? You're married, in love and want to create a little piece of you and your husband. You want to start a family.

And it isn't working.

Hubs and I had been trying for 19 months when I finally admitted we needed help. He was more resistant, insisting that I was just obsessing about it. It's strange to say this, but I knew it...deep in my ever-expanding gut from stress eating. I knew something wasn't working right. 

I wanted answers. And after some time and a few doc visits, I got my answer.

Unexplained infertility.


What. The. Hell.

That's not an answer. That's a non-answer. That's the same as telling a kid "because I said so" when they ask why they can't have a lollipop. It's a load of BS, but it's all I have. 

My first doctor told me we needed to begin the route of infertility treatments. And so we did. Little did I know just how far and how long and how dreadful that road was going to be...

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