INCONCEIVABLE

A lot of couples struggle with infertility.  It’s frustrating, it’s hard on a marriage, and oftentimes, it’s humiliating.  The only saving grace is that sometimes you just have to laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all.  My husband and I have been relatively open about the fact that we have struggled with infertility.  We knew something wasn’t right after a year or two of trying to conceive without success.  Our first step was to our regular doctor who suggested a mild fertility medication and timed intercourse.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried timed intercourse but I can tell you from experience that there’s nothing sexier than a bottle of lube and an eggtimer.   Nothing turned my husband on more than an alarm going off and me snapping my fingers and throwing cheesy pickup lines at him to lighten the mood.  Turns out asking him if there’s a mirror in his pants because I can see myself in them doesn’t work after numerous years of marriage.  It became evident rather quickly that this avenue was not going to work for us.  You see, my husband is out of town a lot.  He was completely unreasonable and adamant that the timed intercourse had to be with him so that significantly limited my options.  It’s a shame too because my charming pickup lines were bound to work on someone. 

Since this was not going to be an option for us, the next step was to see a fertility doctor.  Living in a small city, our options were limited.  The closest specialist that our doctor endorsed was about three and a half hours away.  As a result, our first appointment was via Skype.  That is a surreal experience.  It’s not the first time I’ve discussed my genitals on a webcam but it was a lot more clinical this time around.  It was also a little odd that this guy knew my last name and we didn’t meet on Craig’s List.  But no matter, I guess it’s like riding a bike because, before I knew it, he had all of the information about my lady parts that I usually reserve for a second date. 

Next, we needed to meet our physician in person to go over options, budgets, procedures, and that sort of thing.  We got back into an exam room and the first thing Dr. Babymaker does is pull out an anatomy book and without any warning at all, starts showing us pictures.  I must’ve turned a little green and I looked at my husband in horror.  “What?” he asked me.  “Um… Is that what my vagina looks like?!?!?!?!”  Not fully understanding my disgust, he replies, “Well, yeah.”  “Oh my God!  That’s awful.  Why the fuck aren’t you a homosexual?!?!” Both men in the room seemed unaffected by the bald little alien with its tongue sticking out in the picture and gave me a “Can we please move on?” look.  Now I was frustrated, infertile, AND self conscious.  I crossed my legs a little bit tighter.  He used the picture books to explain to us that he thought I had something called polycystic ovarian syndrome.  “No way, dude. I’ve only had like 5 sexual partners and I always used a condom.”  The doctor looked at me, his patience draining…“It’s not an STD, Mrs. Carlson.”  “Oh.  Well then carry on.”  He told me they could do a quick ultrasound to confirm the diagnosis.  “Okay, that’s not so bad.”  I laid down on the table and pulled up my shirt a little bit, exposing my stomach, when I received another sigh of exasperation from our doctor.  “No, ma’am, it’s an internal ultrasound.  I’m going to need you to get undressed.”  I was very confused but I’ve never really shied away from taking off my clothes for hot doctors, so what the hell?  I took my pants off and laid down on the table.  He then put my feet up in stirrups and pulled out a large wand.  He didn’t seem to think it was funny at all when I asked if they had one with batteries.  The experience was not as enjoyable as I thought it might be but, in typical fashion, he probably just didn’t do it long enough.

The diagnosis was as expected.  I was left to get dressed and meet him back in his office.  I hung my head, a little sad knowing that there was something wrong with me but I pushed it aside, pulled my pants on (making a mental note to bedazzle my vagina before our next visit to make it slightly less hideous), and marched back into the office for my next dose of humiliation.  The first thing he told me was to change the way I eat and perhaps start exercising because weight played a big role in this particular disorder.  Whoa, whoa, whoa!  Way to kick a girl when she’s down, asshole.  “Don’t worry, honey, you could probably have babies if you were just a little less chubby.  A little more broccoli…A little less Ben and Jerry’s.”  I fought the urge to kick him in the shin. 

It was determined that in vitro would be our best option.  He went over the procedure in painstaking detail, again using that horrific anatomy book, and I was pretty sure that my husband was never going to touch me again.  After discussing the procedure, he brought up the subject of frozen embryos.  Basically, he wanted to know if we got pregnant but had remaining embryos left over, would we be interested in donating them?  Donating them??  Like to another couple in the area?  My mind jumped to the worst case scenario.  What if they end up in school together?  What if they fall in love?  What if they get married?  Am I condemning my children to possible incest without their knowledge?  My mind went through every Days of Our Lives episode that I have ever seen before I wrinkled my nose in disgust and asked, “What are our other options?” 

They sent us home with a folder full of information, a prescription for a bunch of hormones, and an empty wallet.  I was to start hormones in two weeks.  Injections proved to be slightly challenging.  The ones in my stomach were okay because I could reach that area easily and I have plenty of extra padding to soften the blow.  It was the hip injections that were interesting.  That is not an easy area to reach by yourself.  I am not overly flexible and, most mornings, this routine seemed to resemble a puppy chasing its tail.  And while I don’t have a fear of needles, it feels wrong to be injecting something into yourself that you know is going to make you crazy.  And crazy I was.  For those who have not experienced infertility hormones, I can safely compare it to pregnancy hormones on steroids.  I cried.  At everything.  And for no particular reason.  I wasn’t even sad!  In fact, I would start laughing at myself while crying because I was crying for no reason.  I’m pretty sure I resembled a clinically depressed villain straight out of Batman.  My husband would ask me…from a safe distance away…if I was going to be okay.  He would barely wait for an answer before rushing down to the basement to quietly plot how he was going to get me to the hospital for a psychological evaluation and fitted for a straight jacket.  I noticed he seemed to spend a little more time at work during this particular phase of treatment.

Luckily, the hormones were only extreme for about two weeks.  Then they leveled out a bit when it was time for my retrieval.  When they mentioned egg retrieval, I immediately thought of a fluffy little bunny going in and pulling brightly colored Easter eggs from my ovaries.   It turns out this was inaccurate.  I didn’t even get any chocolate which I still think is bullshit.  Instead, I got a world of pain from over- stimulated ovaries and a promise of nausea while recovering from anesthesia.  But I sucked it up and put on a brave face because I wasn’t the only one involved in this process.    

My devoted husband had stood by my side through every minute of this ordeal so I felt somewhat obligated to be supportive when it was time for his end of the bargain.  He looked at me, cup in hand, and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about this.”  I looked lovingly at him and then I looked at my feet up in stirrups…again… a shower cap on my head… the current needle in my arm that was going to be a portal to knock me unconscious… the even larger needle on the bedside table that was going to be used to stab at my ovaries… and the current small crowd that was forming between my legs with my vagina as the life of the party.  With every ounce of sympathy that I could muster, I looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry you have to watch porn and have an orgasm.  Seriously, honey, thanks for taking one for the team…” 

Before I knew it, the procedure was over and I was in the recovery room.  I apparently apologized to the doctor for falling asleep while he was talking to me and completely missed my head when trying to point to my big brain while telling everyone how smart I was.  I’m sure I was incredibly embarrassing and my husband couldn’t wait to get me out of there.  So he got me in the car and got to enjoy the three and a half hour ride home with a drugged up wife who thought she was a fantastic singer, impressionist, and comedian.  But my supportive, loving husband didn’t say a word.  Not that I would’ve let him get one in anyway.  He patiently drove me home to wait the agonizing two weeks until the pregnancy test.  Another two weeks of emotional fun for my hubby to deal with.  You will all be surprised to know that he never once threatened divorce.  We weren’t successful but we made it through the ordeal together and even managed to have some laughs along the way.    

Now that I have shared my story and some of the laughs that we have while looking back on it, I feel it’s only fair to address the women in the room who are currently fighting this battle.  I’m sure there are plenty of you out there thinking that there is nothing funny about infertility.  And you’re not wrong.  It’s extremely difficult to see the humor when you are in the situation.  I could have written an entirely different Mamalogue about the heartache and frustration associated with our struggle.  Finding the humor was the only thing that made it bearable for me.  And I had to make a conscious effort to see that humor.  So in fairness to the other hopeful mamas out there who are feeling the stress and frustration, I will offer you this.  I will address the most common question I get.  Was it worth it in the end to someone who was not ultimately successful?  Yes.  I didn’t see it at the time.  But I do now.  It was a journey worth taking.  It’s one more struggle in life that I’ve overcome.  It made me stronger and more comfortable in my own skin.  It helped me see who those true friends were who held me after yet another negative pregnancy test, regardless of the fact that the pee stick was still in dangerously close proximity.  My husband and I have yet another obstacle we have conquered together.  Infertility is stressful and exhausting and disheartening.  But, in the end, I have learned that it didn’t have to be the happy ending I had always dreamt of for me to still find my own happy ending.  But I needed to take this journey to see that.