Oh My Gawd, I Just Compared Myself to a Car

There are many different kinds of infertility; primary infertility, secondary infertility, even male factor infertility. There are also a number different medical afflictions that can keep you from having kids: PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian syndrome), bicornate uterus, LPD (Luteal Phase Disorder), Endometriosis, etc. I certainly sympathize with all women who struggle with infertility, and I can't imagine how it must feel to be diagnosed with one of these problems. My struggle is a little different, however. I have what is commonly (at least on the infertility blogs) known as "unexplained" infertility. That means that there is simply no apparent medical reason why we should not be able to naturally conceive a child. Sometimes I feel like my husband's truck, which has definite problems driving across more than one county, but doesn't seem to have a definitive problem. We’ve replaced components, asked mechanics, and even taken it in to the dealer. No one seems to be able to tell us what the problem is. This presents a unique predicament: how do you fix something when you don't know what's wrong? When you can put your finger on the issue, you can determine a course of action. The same goes for medical problems. If you know what's ailing you, a treatment plan can be agreed upon. When you're unsure of the diagnosis, however, you don't know how to proceed. You don't know what will make you better.

So, as much as I would dislike being diagnosed with any of the aforementioned medical problems, it would at least be nice to know what my particular brand of hiccup is, exactly. Because, just like taking your car in for a mystery fix, guessing the cause of infertility can end up costing a bundle.

Look on the Bright Side: If you Were Anne Boleyn, You Would Have Been Beheaded by Now

Poor, poor Anne. When she failed to produce a male heir for King Henry VIII, he had her beheaded. And how long did she get? A few paltry years? At least my husband isn't plotting my ultimate demise in the near future. (Though he is contemplating buying stock in Disarrono or Kleenex.) I guess if there is any silver lining in the pile of bullsh** that is infertility, it's that we live in an age that not only allows us to cry out our feelings, but also has made it perfectly acceptable (if not downright cosmopolitan) to adopt children if need be. Thank you, Angelina Jolie.

That's Easy for You to Save

I've never been one to strive for money. When I was in high school and made a list of priorities, having a job that "benefited society" was higher on the list than making six figures. I never really saw the need for more than average. (I truly believe that the more you get, the more it will take to surprise, please, or satisfy you. Living at the status quo just helps to keep me grounded and blissfully happy with a 2 bedroom, 1 bath. And I am!) But when photos of Sandra Bullock and her new little one came out in the press, I suddenly had a change of heart: money is good. Money can buy you the one thing that all people should have for free (well, barring medical costs): a child. I mean, I know people who have conceived without so much as a $12.00 bar tab and a taxi ride home. Ooops! Conception. Some didn't incur any additional costs at all. "We just started trying…and, boom! Pregnant." What? No specialist? No expensive prescription drugs? No half-dozen volumes of misguided pregnancy books? No uncomfortable and overpriced (it's just a syringe, man, I used to do that to sheep for less than 50 bucks) medical procedures? That's unreal. No, it's more than that; it's a downright bargain. Infertility? Now, that's another story. When you add up all the costs (and we're not even talking emotional costs, here), it gets to be a very expensive problem, as all medical problems are. Money can usually solve all problems, and this is no exception. If we were just one tax bracket higher, a few IVFs and possibly even a surrogate would be no problem. But here in the lowlands of the economic ladder? It's a big problem. Unless we want to clothe our kids in gunny sacks and feed them rice and water, we're going to have to seriously consider the cost of treatment. The cost of motherhood for other women? Finite. For me? Immeasurable. Hey Sandra, if you ever want to throw a few thousand my way, I wouldn't say "no."

I'm a Delicate Flower

Don't run. Don't jump. Don't even breathe heavily! Why? Because you might, might, might be fertilized. In the days after an IUI, your little (possibly fertilized) egg is lolling around in your nether-regions, waiting to implant in the soft lining that will be its home for the next nine months. What if you were to bounce around at the most inopportune moment, just to spoil the chances of the egg finding its home? Just to be safe, you should not move very much during the first week or so of the TWW. Who says? The superstitious, self-conscious, neurotic infertile, that's who! No, there's no medical evidence that treating yourself like the crazy Renoir aficionado in Amelie (who wrapped himself in cloth because his bones were brittle) will be of any help at all. In fact, your RE even told you to "proceed as normal" a shallow 10 minutes after the actual procedure. But you don't believe your RE, do you? Heck no! Just in case, you're going to walk lightly, speak softly, and avoid any sudden movements. The last thing you'd want to do is ruin your slim chances of actually getting pregnant just because you wanted to show some 12-year-old how to properly complete the first phase of a triple jump. What? You already did that today? Oh, man. It's all over. Nice going. Maybe next time you'll treat yourself like the delicate flower that only you think you are.

The Two-Week Wait: A Story of Addiction to My Calendar

Well, here we are. It's day 1 of the longest 14 days of my month: the two-week wait. The two-week wait is evil. It messes with your mind and makes you do the one things that your high-school guidance counselor told you not to: wish your life away. If I could manually make time go any faster during these next two weeks, I would sell my soul for the answer. (Well, if I hadn't already sold my soul to have a child, that is.) There are two days in the month that make me crabby the moment I wake up: the 1st day of the TWW, and the day the TWW inevitably ends. In the interim, I am an extremely agitated, irritable, and vastly impatient individual. I mark the days off my calendar with vigil, striking through each number as if blacking it out will scare its neighbors into passing a little quicker. Virtually nothing seems as important as day 28, which makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. Believe me, this does not bode well for stacks of grading, students who need extra help, or that pile of clothing that needs sorting in the corner. You literally want to throw your hands up and say, "Seriously, who cares about this stuff when I may or may not be carrying the impossible miracle that is life?" I can only imagine that, if this all works out, I might be tempted to get away with the excuse of, "Seriously, who cares about this stuff when I AM carrying the impossible miracle that is life?" I will totally let myself get away with that one on a regular basis. Trivialities be damned.

If You Need a Book, You're Going to Need More Than a Book

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.

Share and Share Alike

The reason for a blog had eluded me until early this year. I thought that blogs were just for philosophical introverts, or for people sharing pictures and narratives of trips accross the globe. Not until I began struggling with the most bizarre problem I've ever experienced (not being able to conceive a child) did I begin to understand the value of reading someone else's daily rambling. There is strength in solidarity. There is solace in sympathy. And there is a certain satisfaction in having others acknowledge that you are dealing with something beyond your comprehension. I've been keeping an offline "blog" for a few months now, and have decided to share it. It may be self-absorbed, and it may be silly, but if there is one person who reads it and feels like less of a stranger in a world full of budding families, then I feel validated. And, let's face it: sometimes I can be pretty funny.