Hurry up and wait

Today I finally managed to track down Mr's semen analysis results.  The first time I called the clinic, they said they'd faxed the results to my doctor the next day. So I called Dr. P's office with the date and time of the fax, only to be told the fax number the clinic had sent it to was not Dr. P's.  Turns out the clinic sent Mr's results straight to the fertility clinic that Dr. P usually refers patients to, rather than to Dr. P as requested. So after four phone calls back and forth, I finally got someone on the phone who could tell me the results: Not Good.

Same results as before. Lots of semen. Only a little of it lively. Even less of it moving in the right direction.

He's been referred to a local urologist. A very prestigious one in our state.  On the face of it, this seems good. If you've got a problem, go to the best to solve it. But as usual, the Best has a waiting list; a long one. So after another set of four phone calls back and forth between myself, the Urologist office and Mr, we finally have an appointment - six weeks from now.

I got off the phone feeling so tired and defeated.  I was so upbeat last week, even after less than stellar news, that we are finally getting somewhere.  But today just felt so frustrating and like this is just never going to happen. Why do we have to work so hard at something that should be so natural?  It's amazing to me that so many people manage to get pregnant by accident - but us?  We have to wait, and call, and schedule, and manipulate, and argue, and pay, and pray.

And hurry up. And wait.

Loserville, Population: You

I like to think that I normally handle pregnancy announcements pretty well.  I'm always excited and enthusiastic for my baby-baking friend, and reserve my tears for the privacy of my closet or shower.  One of the few upsides to living 12 hours from friends and family is that I don't have to go through these things in person.  Announcements usually come via phone (best friends), email (close friends) or Facebook (aquaintances) - all of which require only minimal faking before I dissolve into a puddle of despair.  Ditto for baby showers - no one questions why I don't attend.  I can send a lovely gift and my sincerest regrets and avoid an agonizing two hours of baby talk and belly watching (because you know there's never just one pregnant lady at these things).

Don't get me wrong, I really am genuinely thrilled for my friends who are blessed with a baby.  How can you not be? It's a baby!  But the longer my arms go empty, the harder it is not to curl up into the fetal position myself and wallow in my self pity.

Fortunately when we moved to the Midwest three years ago, we surrounded ourselves with other childless couples. None of them was in a hurry to procreate, which was A-Okay by me.  But I knew in the back of my mind that this child-free existence would eventually end for someone, I'd just hoped that I would be first.

The announcement came on Saturday. Smart man that my husband is, he mentioned it casually as I drove him to the airport for a week-long trip.  He knew that I would be upset, he just didn't particularly want to be around to see it.  I can't blame him. He doesn't share my burning desire to be a parent. He's just kind of along for the ride. 

And right he was to do it that way because I've been in a funk ever since.  I, of course, sent the obligatory email - OMG! Heard your news! So excited! - but what I really want to do is scream obscenities at the top of my lungs.  To rail against the unfairness of it all. To beg God, 'What do I need to do for that to be me?'

Instead I will practice my interested smile, force some cheer into my voice and prepare for six long months of baby talk and bump watching.

Game Face

Three of my friends had babies yesterday. Three.

What are the odds of them all giving birth on the same day?  I don't know, I've never been good with statistics, but I'm pretty sure the odds are slim.  It just felt like a cruel cosmic joke. A slap in the face. A reminder (or three) of my failure.

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled for each one of my friends.  I don't begrudge them their beautiful babies in the least.  But every new baby is a stark reminder that my arms are empty; there is not even a baby on the horizon for me.  I can't just get off my butt and fix this for myself.  There is a process I must follow to have one of my own. A really, really slow one.

Meanwhile, I stand on the sideline and watch as my friends play the pregnancy game.  Bringing home their trophies in the form of a soft, warm bundle of beauty wrapped in receiving blankets. 

And I wonder when I'll finally win this hard fought battle? When will I have a triumph of my own?

Labelmaker

Infertile (adj): Not fertile; unproductive; barren

Barren (adj): fruitless; destitute; bereft; lacking

Such ugly words, right? For months, I've done everything possible to avoid applying those labels to us.  That's why I want to write about this here, rather than on my 'real' blog.  We (and by "we", I mean me) have told only a handful of people that we are actively TTC: my parents; my sisters; a friend who has three IVF children; a friend who's currently going through IUI.

At first, we kept it a secret because we wanted it to be a surprise. We'd been married several years, completed grad school, established careers, built a home. It was time. We were one of the few couples without kids and I hoped we'd quickly join the ranks. Imagine everyone's shock and elation when we announced!  No one would see it coming.

But the months passed, and there was nothing. And now I kept quiet because I didn't know what was going on. Was it me? Was it him? He wasn't quite ready to spend the big bucks to figure it out. He also wasn't the one crawling all over the internet, worried about how many months it had been and what that could possibly mean.

Soon we'd been trying more months that we had fingers left to count. Announcements came left and right, new babies at a rate of at least one a month. We are now the only friends left from college without at least one. Some have two or three. One even has six.  

And now I keep quiet because I don't want everyone to know.  I don't want to be labeled. Different. Unproductive. Barren. Bereft. Lacking.  

 

Infertile.