I am infertile.
I hate those words. Nothing makes a woman feel so worthless as those three words.
When you’re young, you think that it’s a given. You’ll get married, start your life and have a family.
The trying part is fun, at first. You laugh and play and are still excited at the prospect of sex. It doesn’t take long for schedules, temperatures, test sticks and programmed positions to ruin your good time. You begin to dread even the idea of making love. Who is this man, and why on Earth would you want to do that again? Did you honestly enjoy sex at one time of your life?
You seek medical intervention. You are stuck, poked, prodded, and x-rayed. You are put through MRI’s, ultransounds and exam after humiliating exam.
You eat this, don’t drink that. You take your husband’s tighty whities hostage and you both start taking nearly freezing showers and nasty tasting vitamins. You take shots and pills. Your husband runs and hides because said pills have turned you into “That Scary Woman.”
You read every book that’s written on the subject or MIGHT be written on the subject. You join every internet support group and spend your lunch breaks with OPK’s, testing your CM and hoping for an O.
You look for ways to finance an “iffy” invitro, only to realize there is no way you’ll be able to afford it before you retire. After all, $10,000 is a lot of money to spend on something that’s not even close to 100%.
Finally you accept it. You start looking at the joys of life without your own children, or maybe you start looking into adoption.
You began to believe that the three ugliest words in the English language are not “I am Infertile.”
The precending words were written to express the emotional rollercoaster that I experienced in dealing with my infertility. I ran the full gamit of emotional upheaval until I was finally able to accept it. Unlike most women, I was lucky enough to be blessed when I married my husband and inherited two wonderful step-sons. I am fortunate enough to be, at least part of the time, somebody’s Mommy.
In 1999 I was twenty-two, married to my first husband and eager to begin a family. I could not help but wonder why, after three years of unprotected sex, I had never become pregnant. Although my doctor was not yet too concerned, he did give me the option of doing some preliminary tests.
I had blood tests, urine tests, x-rays and pelic ultrasounds. My doctor, by the time that we rached the ultrasound test, suspected that I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. i remember very clearly the nurse telling me how she doubted that I had PCOS because I didn’t have hair on my face and I wasn’t broke out in acne. I was, secretly, relieved. However, in a few moments, that relief was dashed. The nurse looked at the x-ray technician and said one word, “textbook.” She was pointing at my ovaries on the screen. At my doctor’s appointment a few days later, he showed me what they meant. With PCOS, your eggs do not mature, instead they harden and become cysts, lining your ovaries in a pearl necklace like appearance. Apparently my ovaries look like they came out of a medical book. I was pretty sure I would never give birth that day, I figured my fate was sealed. My doctor, God bless him, urged me not to write off my chances at motherhood. We began treatment with Clomid soon thereafter.
Clomid is a pill that helps to induce ovulation. Generally speaking, a woman takes it on cycle days 5-9 to *hopefully* achieve ovulation and become pregnant. What they rarely tell you is that Clomid will turn you into a raging lunatic. You have the most extreme mood swings of your life, so even if you do ovulate, who’s to say that your husband isn’t running in the opposite direction at the right time? I ovulated on Clomid at the third try, or on 150 mg. I did not get pregnant. I took it for two more cycles and then stopped. I needed a break and my then husband needed a break.
After my experience with Clomid I tried several herbal remedies. Some worked, others just made me bloated or made me breakout. None of them brought me that sought after ovulation, but it was, suffice it to say, a learning process, without the mood swings.
I was afraid to take injections. After all I was only twenty-two, maybe I would get pregnant on my own. I took solace in the Soul Cysters message boards and other PCOS websites. The women and stories were amazing support to me. I began to accept myself for who I was and to take comfort in the fact that my disease was not going to own me. I would not die from it, I would not be ruled by it, it was part of me, but not all of me. I was lucky that was all it was. I went on the birth control pill to treat my symptoms. By the time I was twenty-four I began to grow a few little hairs on the underside of my chin and I had what is refered to as “dirty skin” on my neck. It was also harder for me to lose weight. The birth control pill helped manage these symptoms, if not completely control them.
By the time I was ready to try to concieve again I was nearing my twenty-fifth birthday. My marriage was on it’s last leg and several family traumas prevented me from ever really trying. By twenty-six my divorce was final and I was dating again. When I met the man who would become my husband I told him upfront that I could probably never have kids. I thank God everyday that he is okay with that and that we have his two little boys. I thank their mother often for sharing them with me.
I will not tell you that I am not still hopeful. It would be a lie to say that everytime my period is late that I don’t immediately think “maybe this time…” or that I don’t silently cry when my period does begin. I won’t lie to you about that. I will tell you that I cope. That I sorround myself with children everyday as a preschool teacher and that I take every enjoyment in hanging out with my step-sons. I simply have chosen not to dwell on what I may never change. It’s much nicer to dwell on the blessings that can be found.
