From Here to Infertility

I'm told by so many well-meaning friends to "just have sex every day during mid-cycle."

I've got to be honest and say that I never expected to be one of those women who bawled when their period arrived. But then again, I also imagined myself as some sort of fertility goddess. At the ripe old age of 25, I thought, "one month, two months tops, and I'll be pregnant." The minute we decided to try to get fortune-cookie pregnant, I was sooo excited and certain that we'd be parents before we knew what hit us. I even ordered fortune cookies off the internet–they had adorable little messages that read "you will be honored by the birth of your child". I thought they'd be great when it was time to announce the big news to my husband. I called up my mom and screamed, "we're going to have a baby soon!" I bought a baby comforter, began to peruse books of baby names, and planned to decorate the room with Disney characters. I pitied my girlfriends who were infertile and thought "Thank God I don't have that problem." I was incredibly naive (read: stupid) in those days.

Fast forward 6 months later...

I'm sitting in our bathroom bawling my eyes out. My period has arrived, right on schedule. I'm on my second box of tampons since I went off the pill, and I'm devastated. What the heck is wrong with me? My mind says soothingly, "be patient, it's only been a few months, it'll happen." My hormones answer, "Not quick enough damnit!"

I was too embarrassed to go to the doctor–after all, everyone says to wait a year. A YEAR? I could have a baby and a half by then! I surf the 'net compulsively, reading every article I can related to infertility, pregnancy, and childbirth. I found some great groups of women on the OASIS (Overweight & Seeking Infertility Support) e-mail list. One thing I learned: women who are going through the same thing are the best support you'll ever find. I also happen upon some information on "alternative" ways to increase one's fertility. And so begins my self-induced torture . . .

My "natural family planning" phase...

I'm told by so many well-meaning friends to "just have sex every day during mid-cycle." Okay, I do that. Doesn't work. It does however, cause my poor husband to start sobbing "please no more sex, please, no more." Oh well, time for me to move on to Plan B. But, alas, still no baby.

Some women refer to the book "Taking Charge of Your Fertility" by Toni Wechsler as the fertility bible. "I must have this book!", screamed my hormones; "okay, already!" my pocketbook replied. I ordered it that very day, and had read it cover-to-cover a mere 48 hours after its arrival.
In TCOYF, the author proposes that your peak fertility time can be determined by:

1- basal body temperature (BBT-taking your temperature first thing in the morning)
2- cervical mucus changes
3- cervical position changes

From this point on, my life was governed by my cervix and my temperature. It's interesting to note that before reading the book, I had only a vague idea as to where my cervix was even located. Believe me, you haven't lived until you've stood on your head in the bathroom, hunting down the oh-so-elusive cervix. These days, I can find it in the dark with one hand tied behind my back. Unfortunately, the book was not the answer to my fertility prayers, although I understand it's been quite helpful for scores of other women.

Now my husband was protesting about the obnoxious digital thermometer beeping away at dawn's early light. "Nevermind him", hissed my hormones. Perhaps I should have been clued in when I had absolutely none of the fertility signals indicated in the book–I had no mucus, and my temperature chart looked like the Rocky Mountains. I gave that book away. However, I have mastered making BBT charts on Microsoft Excel–a little known skill that I don't include on my resume.

My herbal phase...

I also read about herbs that could be used for fertility. Previous to my bout of pregnancy-obsession, about the only things that existed in my herb teabag-cup-saucer garden were a little oregano and a bountiful patch of catnip. Needless to say, I ran right out and bought a truckload of the recommended herbs. My friendly neighborhood herbalist is only too happy to assist me. Herbs are supposedly most effective when taken in tincture form. Let me just warn you: tincture tastes like dirt. Nasty, disgusting dirt. But I choked down the herbs anyway, and dutifully drank "infertility tea." I also got some handy-dandy cream to massage into my skin to "boost my body's natural progesterone." It took me about 20 minutes a day to complete this little routine. Unfortunately, I noticed no difference, and I certainly didn't get pregnant. I did, however, spend a lot of money and gag a lot, but my hands are now soft as a baby's behind.

It was during this time that I discovered some little-known fertility symbols. For example, did you know that having sex with an acorn under your mattress increases your chances of conception? Or, that wearing rose quartz normalizes your hormones "thus promoting your inner fertility goddess"? Me neither. I found the acorns for free, but the rose quartz set me back about $12.

Guess what? Still no baby. In the end, all that I got out of this phase was a pretty pink stone and a bruise on my butt from that offending acorn.

My "looking for excuses" phase

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Forget natural family planning, forget herbs, forget chanting to the infertility goddess (which I've done, by the way), by now I've convinced myself that there's some mysterious toxin in my surroundings that's preventing me from achieving a pregnancy. After all, isn't this what the environmentalists have been warning me about all along? Why oh why didn't I pay more attention to this stuff earlier! For years, I've guzzled down 2 diet cokes a day, without even a care as to the hazardous effects of caffeine, let alone nutra-sweet, on my poor reproductive organs!

Not to mention those fatty foods I consumed in careless abandon. And tampons? My Lord, I've been using that bleached-out rayon kind! And all those preservatives in my diet, the fumes from my bathroom cleanser, all those years I was on the pill, that yeast infection remedy . . . The horrors! It's no wonder my uterus can't function–I've been systematically poisoning it throughout most of my life, I hypothesize.

From this point on, I wage a relentless reign of terror on my household–no soda, no McDonald's, no sanitizing bathroom burger-fries cleanser, and no more toxic tampons. The results you ask? I'm grouchy, I'm hungry, I get a big period-stain on the back of my favorite dress, the bathroom grows a funky fur–but still no baby.

Looking back, I realize that I lost hope much too soon. Was it just simple impatience? Or did my body intuitively know that it was destroying itself from the inside out?

My "wonders of modern medicine" phase...

Now, I've sank to an all-time low. I decide it's time to seek professional help. No, not a psychotherapist. I seek out the help of Dr. P, the renowned Reproductive Endocrinologist. After all, he has helped several friends get miracle babies. Why not me?

It's important to note: it takes a looooong time to get an appointment with a good RE. If you think you might be infertile, I suggest you make the appointment now. I myself waited for over a month. Finally, we meet. Funny, he doesn't look like I thought a miracle-worker would . . . But, he'll do. Several tests later, Dr P. pronounces that he knows just what my problem is. He pronounces my ovaries as polycystic–which means they're covered in cysts, not allowing any eggs to pop out. He knows just the fix, and proceeds to lay out a treatment plan that makes my head spin. Clomid, shots, trans-vaginal ultrasounds, intra-uterine inseminations . . . wow, all this just for me? I'm amazed at the wonders of modern medicine. It seems that, at least according to my doctor, that as long as you've got a uterus, you're in business. At least infertility-wise. So, with great expectations, I boarded Clomid Cruise–ports of call: Bitchville, San Hot Flash, and Heartbreak City.

Fast forward 6 months again:

It's now six months after my first appointment with Dr. P. Funny, I somehow thought he would have worked his miracle on me by now. I really thought that by now I'd be 5 months pregnant at least. Nope.

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Instead, I've endured a harrowing five months of trips back and forth to the doctor's office. I've slunk into my boss's office at least once each week, begging for more time off so I can go to the doctor. I think I could potentially hold a World's Record for "Most Doctor Visits in One Week". My monthly cycle dictated that I spend Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, New Year's Day, Valentine's Day, and Easter, all in the comfort of the stirrups in Dr. P's office. Happy happy, joy joy. Before I started this treatment, I had no idea what a "transvaginal ultrasound wand" was. Now I not only know what it is, but I've also named it "Sven" because we've spent so much time together.

Gone are those glorious mid-cycle days, where my husband and I had "love olympics" in the hope of conceiving a child. According to medical science, the only way I'll get pregnant is with intra-uterine insemination and a lot of luck. Unfortunately, by the time everyone came to this conclusion, I was tired. Tired of doctor's appointments, semen samples, inseminations, shots, hot flashes, and most of all, that damned ultrasound wand. I was also sad about the fact that my baby wasn't going to be made in the comfort of my own bed, but rather in the bright lights of the doctor's office. So I decided to take a break. To step back from the rollercoaster that is infertility, and remember what my actual life was like. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I felt like I was giving up on my dream.

Now my husband and I are in the process of adopting a baby girl. I feel so much happiness at our decision and I can't wait until our baby gets here. Somewhere, amongst all the confusion of trying to get pregnant, I'd lost sight of my goal.

What was that goal anyway?

Oh, yeah. Now I remember. A baby.