I'm not planning to talk about this a whole lot, but I don't want to pretend it isn't happening, so here goes. If you don't care to hear about my personal biology and medical history and a long discussion of girly things you may want to skip this post.
I have always wanted to have children. It was always sort of a random, unfocused desire. When I was younger, I decided I wanted to be finished having children before I was 30. Later, I wanted to have started having children before I was 30. Later still, I just wanted to be pregnant before I was 30. I will be 30 in a little more than two weeks. I am not pregnant.
About two years ago, my random, unfocused desire became very un-random and very focused. I started wanting a baby. I started wanting a baby so much I could taste it. I started wanting to pick up every baby I saw and put it entirely into my mouth. I started thinking of names and figuring out how I could work part time and thinking of how I would decorate the nursery. Mainly, I thought about how good the top of a baby's head smells and about how much I wanted to make a person that was a piece of me and a piece of my husband. I also thought a lot about how badly we would screw a kid up and how much I should start putting away into the therapy fund. About a year ago, the planets aligned. We were doing well, had good jobs, a nice house, and we decided it was time. I went off the pill. I had reasonable expectations. I thought I would be pregnant within 6 months or so and have a baby early next year. A year later, I am not pregnant.
I'm not pregnant because my ovaries are a couple of lazy, slack ass bitches. I am really very pissed off at my ovaries. I have been nothing but nice to them. I have given them everything, really. I've kept them warm, I've taken them on numerous vacations with me, I've allowed them to experience the joys of copious amounts of alcohol and moderate amounts of other somewhat less legal drugs. In return, I have asked very little. They didn't have to do a damned thing for the first 12 years of my life; they were just along for the ride. Their only real responsibility is to get off their lazy butts once a month and generate a teeny tiny little egg. This cannot be very trying. As there are two of them, they don't even have to do it every month. They can alternate, or maybe have six months of one and then six months of the other or whatever other labor-sharing arrangement thrills their little ovarian hearts. And then, after this very easy life, they get to retire at 50. Basically (and yes, I have done the math) I am asking each of them to do only 228 things in their entire lifetimes. That is roughly one third of the number of times that I brush my teeth in any given year. Apparently, that is too much trouble for my slack-ass ovaries as they stubbornly refuse to cooperate. Bitches.
For the last few months, we have been subjecting ourselves to the joys of modern medical science. I have given gallons of blood. I have at times looked like a particularly dedicated heroin addict thanks to my professionally administered track marks. I had an HSG, which involves shooting radiographic dye through the uterus and fallopian tubes. At my house, this is affectionately referred to as the "hose up the cooter" test. I was expecting my uterus to look like that pink, rounded triangle always depicted in biology text books and was rather surprised to see that it looked more like my cat's head. I seriously considered getting a copy of the pictures to post in an "About Me" section on this site. My husband has participated in one of the few officially sanctioned medical tests which involve the liberal use of pornography. He was deeply unsatisfied with the selection. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with my husband. I don't ovulate and my collection of highly educated doctors is at a loss to tell me why. So now we are moving from infertility testing to infertility treatment. The first step is a round of Clomid, which theoretically will deliver a sharp kick to my useless ovaries, preferably while wearing steel toed boots. For some reason, the decision to start the Clomid is a lot harder than the decision to go off the pill. We decided to give it one more shot on our own, two months at the most. This is the right decision for a lot of reasons, so why does it make me feel so bad?
Meanwhile, I'm a wreck. I cry at commercials and cheesy tv shows and especially at the trailer for that damned Adam Sandler movie where they talk about how important kids are and how all you can do is the best you can. I was first diagnosed as infertile two days before I received another nasty bit of news. I think I could have handled one or the other. Both in two days pushed me under the bus and it has been a serious struggle to peel myself off the asphalt. While I know it intellectually, I can't help feeling in my heart of hearts that being infertile is a reflection on me. I am defective. I am less of a woman. I am not worth loving. None of these things are true. I have a fairly common medical problem for which I will receive treatment, but that logic is cold comfort.
I don't know how this will end. I can't stand that. I don't know why I am putting myself and us through this, except that I don't have a choice. I have never wanted anything this much. Nothing has ever been this important to me. I'm scared and thrilled and morose and elated and totally alone and surrounded by friends who understand. I am scared out of my mind by the thought of having a child. Somehow I think it will be more challenging than having a cat. I can think of a hundred reasons to never have a baby or to wait another month or another year or another decade. None of that seems to matter. I want a baby and my husband refuses to let me steal one at Starbucks and Jenny has steadfastly refused to be pregnant with twins and give one to me so I guess my only choice is to make one of my own.
So wish me luck at getting knocked up, people.
God. My ass is going to be huge.