September 9, 2016
I never thought I’d need this so strongly.
Growing up, I’d hear friends
talk about their dreams for motherhood someday. I’d hear them wax poetic about
how as long as they could remember, they’d always dreamed of being a mom. While they pursued dreams and goals, all
ambitions fell secondary to Motherhood and they would happily trade it all for
that one role.
I never understood this.
I mean, there was definitely
a part of me that felt a tug for it. But
the thought was abstract, and as I examined my future pursuits, I naively
looked for spaces where I could neatly fit motherhood amidst my other
aspirations. Via both nature and nurture
I grew to be fiercely independent, and I’dbedamned if anyone got in my way of
my plans. I had things to do, degrees to earn, people to reach, a career to
build, books to write, mountains to climb. Someday, I thought. Someday. After
my castle is built and I have some time to set my chisel down and turn away for
a bit, then maybe I can tend to some children.
I continued to nudge this impassive notion further into the future like
a child kicking a stone walking home from the bus stop, and Someday was
repeatedly launched forward, settling on some date too far ahead to discern.
And then.
The desire came swiftly and unexpectedly. The ache, simultaneously sharp and soft,
sweet and bitter, rose from the very marrow of my being and engulfed me – mind,
body, soul. This abstract concept of a
child somehow morphed into a person I felt I practically knew. In my mind, I
began to refer to this hypothetical being in familiar terms. Where are you? I would think. Come. You are already loved
here. Please, come. Despite my
recent master’s degree in social work during which the diagnostic criteria for
delusions and hallucinations were clearly outlined, this currently nonexistent
being felt real to me. While I cast halfhearted attempts to trust God with my
Isaac, I am no Abraham, and thus continued rapid cycling of an Ericksonian
trust vs. mistrust circuit as I would loosen and tighten, loosen and tighten my
grip on motherhood. I-trust-You-I-know-You-love-me-more-than-I-can-imagine-You-know-my-innermost-thoughts-but-wait-do-you-really-remember-how-much-I-want-this-maybe-I-should-tell-you-again?
The intensity of these
emotions surprised me, and they came as an even greater surprise to Seth. One of the reasons we were both attracted to
one another was that we both shared a desire to adopt. So, imagine Seth’s
surprise when I came to him saying, “Sooo, you know how I’ve always told you
that I wanted to adopt and would be fine if I never had a biological child?
Well, so, uh, what if we put adoption on hold for a bit and gave it a shot?” To
Seth’s credit, he took this abrupt change in stride. While he didn’t understand the intensity of
my desire, he assumed a supportive role and climbed aboard the Baby Making
Train with me. Choo-choo, all aboard.
Since I was spending all of
our baby-making budget (both time and money) on grad school, we decided that we
would wait a bit to get pregnant. But
the moment my hypothetical due date calculator gave us a safe buffer after
graduation, we began “trying”, which is a socially appropriate way of saying
that you’re doin’ it all the time at regularly scheduled intervals. It’s a funny thing, really – you spend years
trying to prevent pregnancy, doubling up on contraceptive methods and doing a
fair amount of frantic Googling of “How
late can I be at taking my pill?” and then all of a sudden you’re acting
like pit crew workers at a NASCAR race – “GO! GO! GO! Make that baby! GO!” And since
I had read all the articles about all the things women in their thirties should do to increase their odds of conception, I expected that it would happen within about thirteen minutes.
So we waited. And waited. And waited.
Every month became a roller
coaster. The first half involved lots of
peeing on sticks, repeatedly counting days on a calendar, and constantly
telling myself to relax, dammit. I
would entice Seth into romance by sexily barking, “We’ve gotta do it tonight!”
between gulps of coffee on my way out the door in the morning and reminding him
to “Turn off Netflix, my eggs’re droppin’!” at night. The second half involved
a lot of repeatedly counting days on a calendar, trying not to pee on sticks,
and constantly telling myself that I will “be okay with any outcome”. I tried to refocus, but was still tuning into
every bodily sensation (and making several up): Wait! What was that? A twinge in my side? Certainly, there is a
brilliant child doing calculus in my belly. It was like an insecure teenage
romance – I tried to appear like I was playing it cool, but was actually
checking my phone 17 times a minute to see if I got a text. And then I’d get confirmation that, in fact,
what I was feeling was really the effect of reheated Chinese food, not the
Miracle of Life.
And that is hard. Every
month, it is really hard.
Through it all, Seth remained
steadfast and supportive, trying valiantly to cheer me up with the ABCs of Spousal
Support: Attentive Listening, Bacon/Backrubs/Bringing the Dog Over to Snuggle,
and Copious Amounts of Carbs. Individually, I tried a variety of experiments
with myself to ease the impact of the infertility freight train that hits me
every 28.5 days. I try to focus on the good things about not being pregnant.
I’d pick a date 38 weeks away and think of what I could be doing that month;
given that I wouldn’t be tied up pushing anything out of my lady parts, the
calendar looked pretty open. I’d think of work endeavors I could pursue, a trip
I could plan, a hobby I could begin. I’d
think, well, at least I’ve got another month of enjoying the finer things in
life, like cheap red wine and gas station sushi. These thoughts served as distractions, and
sometimes they worked, at least for a bit. I’d refocus and remind myself about
what I could do. And I’d truly be
excited about those things.
Until.
I’d see a mother cooing her
child in the grocery cart. I’d meet a child whose name was one of my favorites.
I’d see a father with his kids and think of watching my amazing husband be an
amazing daddy. I’d play with friends’ beautiful children. I’d hear of another
pregnancy announcement and wonder why
isn’t my body doing that. I’d be
marching confidently through my day and the desire for mommyhood would hit me,
hard, and it was all I could do to not curl up and cry.
So, a year after I stopped
birth control, I shared with Seth my fears and impatience. I needed at least
SOME answers. While his biological clock may not have been ticking as loudly as
mine, he sensed my urgency and agreed to take the next step. We went to THAT
doctor. We provided our blood tests and,
ahem, samples, and went to find out exactly what was wrong so we could do
exactly what we needed to do to fix it with a minimal financial investment.
(Ha.) While I knew that things weren’t quite right, the first time a doctor
used the word “infertility” to describe our situation, time froze for a bit
while I struggled to accept this new label.
Infertility. We struggled with
infertility. It was like being stuck with the pin of a badge I didn’t want to
wear.
We learned a lot at that
appointment. We learned that, while I had been told at a younger age that my
uterus was a bit misshapen, it was in fact in pretty perfect baby-growing
condition. We learned that my husband had a healthy troupe of well-armed
servicemen ready to go. We also learned
that my AMH level, which stands for All the Mommy Hormones and helps determine
your egg supply, were that of a woman seven years older than me (I used this
opportunity to tell people that my ovaries were born seven years before I
was. Tip: Sort of funny-awkward with
your friends, but regular- awkward in an elevator.) Thus, our chances of
natural conception are about 3% per month, which is coincidentally about the
same percentage of the time I agree to watch any show but Parks and Recreation
on Netflix.
We also learned of the
options we had for treatment – monthly rounds of Clomid and interuterine
insemination (read: turkey baster) which would improve our odds a bit and gave
us some hope. While the reality of our situation was a hard to swallow (i.e., a
couple ugly cries that made me look like I had been jumped by killer bees), I
did feel better to have a plan and a course of action. I like plans and courses
of action and boxes to check off – I don’t do well with ambiguity (which is, of
course, a hallmark of infertility – there is often no definite
explanation). Seth, on the other hand,
struggled with the sterile feel of it all. While he would prefer to keep his
attempts at conception to the good ol’-fashioned way, his objections quickly
faded into soft concessions of “Sure, babe. Let’s do it,” as he sensed the
desperation I felt. And in that moment,
amidst a cacophony of intense conflicting emotions, I was reminded of one
important thing: I married a good, good man.
And so now – here we go. The only direction to go is forward, armed
with our faith, our love for each other, our trusty boxes to check, and a
deeply rooted (if entirely irrational) conviction that our child is out there,
somewhere – waiting, in a sense, for our paths to cross.
I hope we find each other
soon.
