In the early months, you think that there are "miracle cures" for infertility. Myself? I tried many things - forswearing dairy products, taking Vitex, putting a pillow under my back after intercourse, even ceasing to drink Coke. (The last one was the toughest, just for the record.)
For as long as I can remember, I have placed the utmost stock in books and their contents. I believed wholeheartedly that books can ease pain, solve problems, and offer consolation. Unfortunately, when it comes to nature, as the authors of the Farmer's Almanac found out, there is no way to predict or prescribe away the inevitable. My inevitability? I can't naturally get pregnant. Once you finally realize that these books offer nothing but placebos and dead ends, confusion sets in, mixed with a healthy dose of panic. At first it was a comfort, knowing that other women (at least, enough to warrant the publication of a manual) have problems conceiving children as well. Later, however, you realize that no matter how many people suffer from a particular affliction, you always end up feeling very much alone and very singled out. You always end up feeling like a minority, a freak, or a disappointment to your species.
After you realize that the book is telling you only about things that you've already done, you must make the difficult decision to admit your defeat. You are not going to get pregnant on an page and a prayer - you're going to need scientific intervention. The book was not the last bastion of secret information - it was merely a step in a journey of a thousand miles. Put your walking shoes on; it's going to be a long way.
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