And the journey continues.
It’s been interesting, to say the least. The roller coaster
has continued in much the same way, but this time, it involves pills, more
expensive pee sticks, and romantic visits to Inseminations R Us. Also, the cost
of conception went from $4 for a glass of wine and a Redbox to $350 for Seth’s
specially selected MVPs and a monthly visit to The Place With the Stirrups. So,
if trying to make a baby before fertility treatments was like riding Space
Mountain, trying to make a baby with fertility treatments is like riding Space
Mountain while wearing an uncomfortably placed catheter and throwing hundred
dollar bills over the side.
This last round of treatment involved taking Clomid (an oral
medication that helps build follicles) and then going in for interuterine
inseminations (IUIs). IUIs provide the unique opportunity to conceive a child
with a complete stranger in a lab coat while your husband is twenty miles away.
The first super-fun part about this experience is scheduling. I spend several
days peeing on the aforementioned sticks, which are approximately $47.00 apiece
(unless you buy a box of 2,000 on Amazon, in which case they are $45.39 each).
When I get a happy face (it is literally a happy face – I think this is the
first time my urine stream has made someone smile), I tell Seth, “CANCEL ALL
YOUR PLANS. IT IS TIME TO SCHEDULE THE INSEMINATION.” So, we immediately quit
our jobs and frantically call Inseminations R Us: “WE NEED TO GET IN
IMMEDIATELY. I PEED A HAPPY FACE! I PEED
A HAPPY FACE!” The nice people at IRU try their best to schedule a
convenient time right in the middle of your work hours around all the other
frantic people who have also peed happy faces.
Then, Seth goes in to our appointment. He goes and sits with other men
who are also trying to produce offspring
in the Andrology waiting room, also known as The Most Awkward Room in Existence. Another nice person calls him back to The
Place Seth Never Wants to Talk About, samples are provided, and they are put in
a cute little syringe with our names on it.
Here’s where I get a part! Yay! I show up about 45 minutes
later. Seth and I run into each other in
the parking lot. Since this could be Conception Day, we make it super romantic
by hugging, saying, “Don’t forget to grab cat food on the way home!” and maybe
squeezing in a butt slap as we dash our separate directions – him back to work,
me to get pregnant. He shouts something
like, “Go get ‘em, tiger!” as I run into the building. (Just kidding. He never
says that, because he is smart.) I go up to the other waiting room that is
slightly less awkward. I am called back
by yet another nice person (Seriously, I’ll give you $10,000 if you can find a
jerk who works in an infertility clinic) who shows me a Styrofoam box. On the top is a sticker that says Seth Foster and Bethany Foster. He asks me if those are our names. I say, “No,
my name is Oprah.” I am very mature and responsible and simply say, “Yes.”
He then opens a series of baggies and other containers like one of those wooden
Russian dolls, each of which with our name on it, and asks me in three
languages if the names are correct. I, still being mature, simply say, “Yes,
oui, ja,” instead of snickering about my husband’s sperm swimming around in a
syringe.
I then go back to The Room With the Stirrups. Yet ANOTHER
nice person walks in, introduces herself, and tells me that she will be doing
the procedure today. I say not-awkward things like, “Can’t I at least buy you
dinner first?” and she chuckles and pretends that no one has ever made that
joke before. Then some stuff happens
that I don’t wanna talk about because my dad reads this, and she says “All
set!” I make another joke about could she at least offer me a cigarette,
followed up with, “Just kidding, I really don’t smoke,” all of which she just
ignores, probably for my sake. I lay there for 10 minutes, doing some
conception visualization that looks surprisingly similar to early-2000’s anime,
get dressed, and leave.
It’s all super hot, really.
In all sincerity, the hills and valleys of the roller
coaster are steeper now. There is more hope because we are doing something, but
with more hope comes higher expectations and bigger letdowns. We did what the
doctor suggested – Clomid and 3 rounds of IUIs (plus one bonus IUI, because I
have always liked earning extra credit.) For most people, this will work. For
us, it didn’t. While the rubber stamp of
“infertility” was hard to swallow at first, we were quickly buoyed by the
interventions available. I felt confident that our extra effort would pay off -
we were going to do all the things in all the boxes and most likely our good
faith efforts would be rewarded. We had everything under control.
Ha. Control. Funny!
After the four failed IUIs, we found ourselves back at the
doctor, trying to create a new plan of action and hoping he would provide us
with more boxes to check (I just LOVE me those boxes). We were left with few
options short of IVF (which is not an option we currently have on the table). Our doctor suggested one more Hail Mary: more
intensive (and expensive) IUIs. These involved Letrozole (similar to Clomid) on
Days 3-7, an ultrasound on Day 7, some self-administered shots to help “grow”
follicles (eggs), another ultrasound on Day 11, another self-administered shot
to induce ovulation, and then taking progesterone the rest of the month. Super
simple! But, since it is the last
medical intervention available for us currently, we agreed to give this next
round of treatment a shot. (Shot! Get it? I’ll be giving myself lots of those.
Good thing I have absolutely no problem with needles and am not the least bit
squeamish about this. Good thing my husband also does not sometimes pass out
when he needs a shot of his own. Don’t worry about us, though; we’ll be fine,
‘cause we’ll just train the dog to do it.)
So, we continue to move forward. It is more challenging to stay optimistic, so
I find myself becoming a bit more mechanical… going through the motions and
relying rather extensively on sarcastic humor that isn’t actually very funny. (For example: When I have to leave work early
for IUIs, I always say to a certain colleague of mine, “Off to go get
inseminated like a common barnyard animal!” And she always responds with a dry,
“Mooooo…”) And I’ve decided that unfunny sarcasm and mechanical motion-going is
okay for awhile. When life’s edges get
sharp, sometimes you need to do what you can to keep from bumping up against
them.
And yet, despite my best efforts to avoid the pokey spots,
they’re still there. I run into them more often than I’d like; usually at
night, when the jokes have run dry, the day’s goals are asleep, and there is no
distraction to hurl my emotional energy towards. My eyes dart around the dark room as if
searching for a distraction so I am not left alone with the question that I try
to avoid: What if we really can’t have
kids? The thought comes and I jerk away from it as if I’ve touched a hot
stove. I’m not ready for that. I can’t
go there yet. I still find myself
thinking of “our child”, that hypothetical being who is wanted so badly that it
feels as if she actually exists. I still find myself asking the same question,
although this time with a crack in my voice and a distinctive tone of
desperation: Where are you? Please, come.
I am still hoping, praying, that we find each other soon.
