... and so did Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. My fiance, who has 2 boys from a previous marriage, does not want further offspring. I, on the other hand, am a late blooming 42 yr old who finally found the man of my dreams and would love more than anything to be a mother and create a new life with this man. And, if my body wasn't up to the task, I always had a back-up dream of Charlize Theron-izing my life, and adopting an Ethiopian baby (or Congolese, or Chinese - those details don't matter) ... but since I'm not a millionaire, that's clearly out of the question. So, he asked me how much time I needed. Since I hadn't gotten pregnant naturally after getting off the pill and I knew enough about the first phase of fertility treatment from my best friend, I stupidly and honestly told him 6 months. So, he gave me that: 6 ..... months. I've been menstruating for, let's see .... 42 - 12 = 30 years x 12 times a year = 360 times ... with about a 4 day period (give or take) = 1440 days of tampon changing, worrying about leakage, cramps, bloating, bitchiness and chocolate cravings ... while all the while fully confident that one day, it would pay off and result in my amazing female ability to conceive, carry, feed and give life. But, I got 180 days. So, I went on clomid, the most obvious and least invasive 1st step on the path of infertility treatment.
I went through several blood tests, pelvic exams, ultrasounds and an uncomfortable fallopian tube test where they check to see if there's any blockage by first jamming your body into an MRI-like tube, and then thrusting dye into your unit, which painfully dilates your cervix, to see if, on an x-ray, if the dye goes thru the tubes. Mine did. At first the Doc (a gorgeous OB/GYN who you just soooo want to deliver your baby) said it was my thyroid that was the problem, then said that was a false test and it was fine, then said I wasn't ovulating. Note to the ignorant and female (like me) wanting to procreate someday: JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE GETTING YOUR PERIOD, IT DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU ARE OVULATING. Okay, something I didn't know until a few years ago. So, he put me on clomid, which stimulates ovulation. The rule of thumb about clomid, is that if it doesn't produce a result within 6 months, it won't ever. AND, yes, you can increase the dose of clomid to up your chances of ovulation, BUT the increased dose DECREASES the vital mucus needed to get that egg successfully pierced and locked down.
I went to every appointment alone, sitting in waiting rooms full of soon-to-be-mothers about to pop and tender couples; the woman's stomach flat as a pancake, and a supportive man, at her side. I didn't share much about my doctor's appointments with Scott. I told him what was going on, but didn't give him the dirty details, partially because I felt like he didn't want the whole thing to be happening in the first place, but mostly to protect him. I didn't want to rejoice in my potential to conceive and "ruin" his life. I was so envious of the women who had supportive partners, and my tears fell inside ... and gasped for air ... of love and togetherness in creating new life - the kind I thought I would have.
Now, I know this is all painfully boring if you're not trying to conceive, so I will cut to the chase: clomid didn't work. My doc upped the dosage to the highest recommended for the last 3 of the 6 months and ... nothing. It teasingly made my period late, too, which was just a cruel mind fuck. I sat there like an idiot on my free "Women's Ovulation Calendar" app on my cell phone and counted away. I would be 5 days late (which for me, is a record! You could set the NASA countdown to my menstruation) ... and DARE to think, "What if?" ... only to get that fucking spot on my underwear. I've never hated being a woman so much.
Like I said, my fiance gave me 6 months to get pregnant, and the timer has gone off. The day I got my period my last month on clomid, I got home from work, cried from 5:30 until my Advil PM kicked in, got up, went to work the next day, got home, cried, then the 3rd day, I cried in the bathroom at work every time I saw my failed-self in the mirror, got home, and didn't cry.
My fiance might get a vasectomy, he might not .... he's not sure yet. We are on different planets when it comes to this.
It's been 2 weeks. I started crying again .. here and there, off and on. I'm using every spiritual and self-help mantra and reasoning I possibly can help me to get through this ... but it's not going away: the want, the hurt, the pain that I can't believe doesn't kill me. I'm back to my resentful self when I see someone with a baby, as I masochistically search for the parent's expression. It's always the same ... on everyone: from a 20 year old Hispanic guy, to 40 year old white woman: serene satisfaction, gentleness, and most vivid: purpose.
I study a lot of Buddhism, and one message is always clear and foremost: happiness comes from serving others. Parenting is the ultimate form of serving another. I don't think this life created a substitute, but I guess I will have to die trying to find it.
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