The urologist’s nurse shot me a quizzical look. That should have been my first clue. I guess I looked too happy.
“You know what you’re here for, right?”
“For a baseline on my bladder?”
Months earlier, I’d been shocked by a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. On my initial visits to the neurologist, cold dread had gripped my insides, squeezing the breath out of me in the waiting room as I moved chairs aside for patients in wheelchairs. I told myself to smile and make eye contact with them. Was I looking at my future self?
With time, I’d adjusted, and that day, I was feeling more upbeat than terrified. Bladder problems are common with MS, and since mine had misbehaved in the past, the neurologist had ordered this exam. I felt strong, though, and eager to receive a glowing report. I’d always excelled on tests. If confidence and determination could influence performance, my bladder might pass. Continue reading
It has been said that art represents humanity’s collective attempt to reconcile its own existence against an otherwise cold and uncaring universe. To strip away artifice, to obliterate pretense — to provide a context through which we may hope to define, at its core, exactly what it means to be a person. Which explains why art is so often heartbreakingly, unyieldingly, sad. Because, loath as we may be to admit it (and despite all of our attempts to the contrary), ours is a conclusively lonely existence — one fraught with sorrow, doubt, and, ultimately, disillusionment. That’s the torment heard in Juliet’s deathbed soliloquy, the longing behind the chords of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” the anguished panic pulsating through Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” And that’s the reason why, every Spring, I make sure to stock up on extra-soft, triple-ply, Kleenex-brand tissues in anticipation of the season’s most gut-wrenchingly devastating artistic offering: the premier episode of the ABC network’s hit reality television series “The Bachelorette.”
I pick at scabs.
I pick at boogers.
I pick at my husband’s inability to clean the toilet with anything other than a one-ply square of toilet paper and some spit.
I pick at other people’s opinions.
I pick at my own opinions.
I pick at myself.
But that day in the car, the object of my picking was a tiny morsel of some undetermined substance that had become glued to the passenger’s side window. Attached to it, was a thick, healthy layer of my debilitating and ever-present anxiety.
“Quit picking,” my husband said, taking his hand off the steering wheel and swatting it at my arm.
I took a closer look at the dried-up flake of goo encrusted to the window. My focus blurred out, and I quickly noticed a pair of quietly defeated eyes staring back at me.
“I don’t want to go anymore,” I said, those defeated eyes shifting over at my husband. “I just want to go home.”
“What? What do you mean you don’t want to go? Right now? You mean, you want me to turn the car around right now and just go home?”
I moved my fingernail back to that last particle of anxiety that was clinging to the window, and in one fell scrape, it all became clear to me. And, I flicked that flucker to the floor.
We had been married for a little under a year when the nosy familial whispers of baby talk began blowing in our general direction. The mothers and aunts started uncomfortably poking their large noses into our sex lives (ew, mom, get outta’ here!). However, I really didn’t need any of their uninvited whispering to purchase a ticket for the baby train; my uterus had already been infiltrated by the baby fever virus a few years back when I was still acting waiting tables in New York City.
The bar I worked at on Bleecker Street had this event that was aptly titled, “Baby Disco.” All the Brooklynite hipster mommies and daddies would come out in droves, toting their dolled-up, expensive children behind them. It was an afternoon filled with apple juicebox cocktails, and babies dancing and twitching erratically to the mashed-up tunes of Raffi and Yo Gabba. In the background, some overly enthusiastic “DJ” would begin shouting out pun-intended commands of “shake your booties!” and “tip them bottles back!”
As the babies gracefully convulsed on the dancefloor to the rhythmic sounds of “Wheels on the Bus,” I would perch myself atop one of the velvet barstools, staring at all of the tiny human weirdos. This particular event was not a desired one to those of us trying to make rent wearing a cocktail apron. And seeing as there were a bunch of lazy, no-job babies occupying the dance floor at that moment, no cocktails were to be ordered that day, and, therefore, my pockets would be going home with a whole lot of nothing.
“Dummy hipster babies and their non-monies, wearing their tiny clothes with their stupid, tiny arms,” grumble, grumble, grrrrrr, grumble —
But suddenly, the grumbling objections came to a halt. In one moment, my bitter criticisms of all the tiny babies in their tiny clothes with their tiny, stupid arms and no money, disappeared. One of the miniature hipster baby beings came toddling out from behind the moldy shadows of that pungent basement bar, and right on into my cold, dead heart. What was this thing forming upon my face? A smile? Is this what a smile is? And who was this delightful, little creature swatting at the apron string dangling below my waist? Was he some type of cat? No, no, he was not a cat. He appeared to be one of the tiny, little humans. And although he had no monies and no tips to bear upon me, I did not yell curses at him.
He was all decked out in a shiny jumpsuit, as a flashy disco ball swayed from around his wee, little no neck, highlighting his man-baby chub pectorals. But the pièce de résistance, was the colossal afro-puff wig his mother had pinned to his large nugget of a baby head. It bounced as if in slow-motion as he suddenly discovered the excitement that was jumping up and then back down again. He looked absolutely ridiculous, and I wanted to roll him up like a tiny joint and carry him around in my pocket forever. The absurdity that was this package of cute was so very overwhelming, I began to understand why Lenny squeezed that puppy so damn hard; he was so cute, I was overcome with the sudden urge to punch a wall. . .or a “DJ.”
The next thing I knew, this miniature John Travolta threw his pudgy lil’ arm rolls up toward the ceiling and into my general direction. I glanced over toward the edge of the bar where his mother was downing “Mommy Mojitos” and flirting with one of our several androgynous bartenders. She gave me the nod of approval to hoist her toddler up and into my arms. And, boy, did I.
“Well, hey there, little buddy,” I said, the massive chunk of cute now propped up around my waist. “You are very shiny today. What you got there around your neck?”
“Is ah neck-essh, is ah NECK-ESHH!” he yelled at my face and then promptly began poking a stubby pointer finger directly into my eye.
“Eye-baw. Eye-baw. Eye-baw.”
“Ow. Okay, ouch. Yep, that’s right. That is, in fact, my eyeball.”
And with the poking of my eyebaw, that kid single-handedly caused my frozen and jaded heart to come sputtering back to life. The world’s tiniest disco dancer had just set my soul ablaze, prompting the onset of a very serious case of baby fever virus.
Once I was sucked in by the enchanting coos of the tiny disco dancer, I started noticing babies all over the place: staring delightfully at me on the subway; splashing in puddles of undetermined liquids on the sidewalk; being strolled in golden buggies pushed by large, mannish Russian nannies named Vahina; all of which caused a barrage of hysterics to come spewing from my eyebaws. They were all so unfairly precious, but, where was mine? Where was my baby? How do I get one? Is there a number I can call? Do they sell them in bodegas? Does Oprah give them away?
“You need the sperm of a maaaaan,” whispered the ominous voiceover for the screenplay that was my life.
Say what, now? What’s this “man” you speak of? Where in Oprah’s good name am I supposed to find this man-type person to implant life into my rapidly depleting 28-year-old eggs? How do I get one? Is there a number I can call? Do they sell them in bodegas? Does Oprah give them away? Where is the sperm, Oprah, where is it?
As it turned out, that sperm just happened to be located within the confined balls of my now husband. But, just how that sperm successfully made its way through the cluster-frank of my Mrs. Fubbs’ front parlor was quite the magical feat, indeed.
When I entered high school, I was one of those fourteen-year-olds who was shaving barely-visible, blonde peach fuzz from her armpits and calves. In that same vein, I was the last of my friends to get her period, and I would often find myself overturning the house in search of small, round, smushy objects to shove into my (still) training bra. I was as flat as a board, and my ovaries were as dry as a popcorn fart.
While all my friends were proudly displaying their light-day tampons within the side pockets of their backpacks, my sad, little side pockets just continued to gather pencil shavings and pre-pubescent tears. When was it going to be my turn in class to theatrically raise my hand and proudly announce that I needed to use the restroom because I was having my menstruation? I was desperate to use the word “menstruation” in public, so every night, I would pray to all my gods that it would come soon.
By the end of my freshman year, the universe finally responded. And it responded big time: When I was finally able to use the word “menstruation” in public, along with it, came excruciating cramps.
Now, I was never a complainer when I was younger. . .(I explicitly say “younger” because my husband, Davis, is now reading this with a rather suspecting side-eye and quickly forming a countersuit to this claim of myself as a non-complainer. I said “younger,” Davis.) So, when I was younger, I was a tough, lil’ cookie who tended to keep her mouth shut and went to school no matter the what, the who, or the ache. My parents taught my brother and me that hard work does pay off eventually, so we would just suck it up and try to get through the day. I led with this motto for many a year. . .(however, now I’m older and because I’m SO old, I don’t feel like working hard anymore, and I kind of just wanna’ watch tv and eat chips. . .)
Unfortunately, due to my lack of complaining, when I did eventually go through puberty, I never really let on just exactly how much pain I was in for the seven to nine days out of the month; I just always assumed this was what every girl went through during that time of the month. I also assumed every gal bought the super-plus, big-momma tampon pack in bulk and changed them out every thirty minutes. Apparently, I was incorrect.
So, by the time I reached my thirties, I had developed a pretty debilitating female condition. Did I know there was a medical term for this? No. Did I know I should be going to the gynecologist on a regular basis and divulging this vital information? Sorta? Did I have insurance? What the flip is that? Without insurance—and a very apparent lack of ability in making adult decisions such as taking care of oneself—it had been a shameful amount of years I had been without a checkup at the gyno. Therefore, by the time I was thirty, little did I know, I had just about drained all of my fertility right on outta’ my irresponsible self. My sweet husband was at a loss for how to help me as I spent a handful of days every month, writhing in pain underneath the covers in the dark confines of our bedroom, so, he took it upon himself to force me to see a doctor.
Yay, open stirrups to aid in the display of all my lady parts!
Wahoo! Metal forceps to stick up inside those parts!
Strangers’ hands poking at my insides with a comically large q-tip? Mother, maaaaaay I?!
I have said it before, and I will say it again: the human race as we know it would no longer be in existence if men were the ones to menstruate and poop out a child. No offense, mens, but the females are one collectively tough motha. (I know, I know, sir, your precious little balls are “extremely sensitive” and we “have no idea what it feels like to get kicked in them,” but can I just calmly respond with: imaginepoopingababyoutofyourpenis). With that said, if I once thought a normal visit to the gyno was rough, little did I know what was in store when hopping aboard the infertility train: it’s a real hoot!
On that specific visit to the gyno, and after about three or four minutes of awkward silence while cold metal forceps jerked around my ladies, the doctor finally spoke:
“Hmm. . .”
Hmm: The three-letter utterance of which no person of the female or male gender desires to hear in any kind of a medical environment, ever.
“Hmm. . .”
Um. Say what, now?
“Hmm. . .”
What’s up, doc?
“Hmm. . .”
“Hmm. . .”
Thinking about your lunch plans for the day?
“Um. . .is everything okay?” I finally asked.
“Just one minute. . .”
Just one minute: The other phrase no person desires to hear in any kind of a medical environment, ever.
Translation of Just one minute: the next few minutes of your life will seem like three weeks and nineteen days as I poke and prod at whatever ominous abnormality I hath uncovered with this torturous, metal poking device.
Just as my emotional state was about to take a nasty dive into the perilous waters of anxiety and fear, the doctor asked me to sit up, get dressed, and meet him in his office.
Five minutes, and several differing stages of emotion, later, I found myself uncomfortably slouched-over in a cold, leather chair in front of his desk. Biting off what was left of my nailbeds, I felt about as small and as helpless as a six-year-old waiting for her punishment after washing the car with rocks. I couldn’t decide if I really wanted to find out what that “Hmm. . .” really was all about, or if I should just run screaming out the door and into obliviousness.
“Well,” he said, folding his hands together as if in prayer (great, now we have to pray), “I have some good . . . and some bad news.”
Just what I suspected: Death. But, a fast death. So, that must be the good news.
“The bad news is that I found several large tumors inside your endometrium; one of which is a very massive submucosal tumor located in your central uterus—”
TUMORS?!?! DEATH! DEATH IS CERTAIN!
“—But, these specific type of tumors are known as fibroid tumors, and while they are nothing to be too concerned about, they do need to be removed.”
Although I received an unwelcomed crash course in sexual education that day, I also learned what was causing me years and years of horrific pain. Not only did I have fibroids, but I had numerous ovarian cysts, and severe endometriosis. The final offering I was given that dreaded day in August was an extended cliff-hanger version of the “Hmm”:
“So,” I said, cautiously, “what does this mean about wanting children? Will I still be able to have children?”
“Well. . .”
Of course that specific doctor could not confidently assuage my concerns on whether or not I would be able to have kids one day, but he did give me the card of the guy who would. (Or, as my husband and I would later uncover, the card of the guy manipulating the controls to the months-long rollercoaster ride of infertility malarkey.)
In the beginning, this fertility doctor (we will refer to him as Dr. L, short for Dr. LiesALot), Dr. L. was as kind and as seemingly genuine as a puppy. He spoke calmly and sweetly as we discussed how the surgery was going to play out and what kind of recovery (and drugs! Wahoo!) I would be looking forward to. He would be performing what is known as a laparoscopic myomectomy in which five, small incisions are made; one being above the navel where a slender telescope is inserted. The surgery is done by way of the doctor overseeing robotic instruments being manipulated via computer. (It’s very sophisticatedly Jetsons.) That said, one who performs this type of surgery has to be extremely dexterous and possess a mastery in hand-eye coordination. Now, as my views of this Dr. L. tend to be negative in nature, I have to emphasize that he executed the surgery beautifully. So, the actual surgery went very well, but it was the consultation with him following the surgery that melded my perception of him down into a gigantic, steaming pile of turd.
At my geriatric age of thirty, I had previously had a couple of surgeries prior to this one. The first of which was an appendectomy when I was about eight years old. This was another case in which my non-complaints led to a pretty crappy crapstorm of a time.
I had been experiencing a pretty bad stomachache for a few days, and only told my parents about it on the second or third day. Of course they let me stay home from school, assuming I was merely experiencing a bad stomach virus or something. As I lay at home on the couch, however, I suddenly began feeling what was, I could only imagine, a very sharp knife proceeding to slice apart my innards. At this point, I finally pressed an urgency to my mom that something just didn’t feel right inside my tummy. She promptly took me to my pediatrician, and, within minutes, my pediatrician announced that I was experiencing an appendicitis. The doctor then gravely informed us that God only knew how long I had before my inflamed appendix would burst into a glorious upoar of golden fire inside of my stomach and I would DIE. (Well, at least, that is how my eight-year-old brain heard and envisioned it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that inside of a box somewhere in my parent’s attic, there’s a beautifully detailed illustration of a small child running down a hospital corridor; her stomach spewing out an oozing mess of blood and intestines, all blazing a fire, and she is screaming out to the other patients, “Beware! Beware! My uppindicks is bersting! My uppindicks is bersting!”)
Of course, death was not actually forthcoming, but my poor mother was still horrified and guilt-ridden, so that sobbing mess of a woman quickly rushed me to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.
It’s a funny thing that occurs when you’re younger. When you’re just a kid, you live with the assumption that your parents are all-knowing, magical protectors of all things evil and strange. (Of course, when you get older, you struggle with your own incapability of navigating the bitch that is life, so you quickly realize your parents never had an effing clue either.) But, as a child I was still under the naïve impression that this surgery should not be terrifying in the least because I knew that my parents would never let anything bad happen to me. In fact, I found it rather disgustingly awesome that they were going to cut open my guts with a knife and pull things out of me.
It is not just children who are naïve in the belief of: “Nothing can harm me; I will live forever, so let’s all build a fort with these rusted knives and nails and cuddle the rabid, feral cats the man in the white van sold to us!” A few years following my appendectomy, a similar naïve motto of fearlessness found me once again during my rebellious teenage years when is equal parts invincible and completely moronic.
So, when I was seventeen and found out I had to undergo the routine procedure of having my wisdom teeth removed, not only was I so very unafraid of the procedure, but I was, like, ohmygod, totally looking forward to it. Because: drugs.
“Now, you know they are going to give you some stuff that is going to make you a little loopy after the surgery,” said my poor mother, who apparently assumed I was a virgin to all things mind-altering.
“Whatever, mom, yeah, okay, whatever, shut up, I hate you.”
This conversation occurred on the ride to the dental office and was just a few hours before they wheeled me out of surgery and into the lobby where I would then proceed to not only humiliate my mother, but cause another young dental patient to burst into tears. But, give me a break, it wasn’t my fault; they should have never exposed me to the marvelous wonderment that is nitrous oxide. When administered to most people, they often feel euphoria, express laughter, or possibly even experience a fun, little hallucination trip. Not me; I yell at people.
When the dental assistant first wheeled me out and into the care of my mother, I looked up at my mother and let her know that she was, in fact, my mother.
“You are my mom.”
Then, my attention was quickly diverted over to the sounds of a young girl, about the age of fourteen, quietly expressing her concerns to her mother about her upcoming surgery. Being the omnipotent wizard that I am, I just knew she must also be having her wisdom teeth removed as this was the only kind of surgery done ever. For all I actually knew, she could have been having her entire jaw replaced, but my friend nitrous oxide told me it was definitely wisdom teeth removal, and that it was vital I provide her with my professional opinion regarding her concerns:
“Wha,” I said, quietly at first, but then recognizing the beauty that is my own voice, I began shouting loudly at the girl just in case she couldn’t hear me all the way on the other side of three feet away, “Wha inthafuhd, gurl. . .I mean, fohr real, wha in tha fuhd is wrong in you, why are you complairning, this drughs is grehyt, stop yurt whining yout gurl.”
We were invited to never come back.
So, prior to the myomectomy, I had already had some fairly noteworthy experience going under the knife, and as we found out, the appendectomy would be directly related to an unforeseen treasure to be uncovered during the myomectomy. As Dr. L. began slicing and dicing fibroids, extracting cysts, and burning off endometriosis, he also discovered that one of my fallopian tubes was completely and utterly useless. Following the procedure, we were given photos of all of the vibrant items that were removed from my insides; one being the useless fallopian tube, and let me tell you, it was magically hideous. It looked like a dried-up, skinny wiener in which had been viciously beaten and twisted, causing severely colorful bruising of the flesh. The image could, and did, elicit vomiting; likewise, I fully intend to torture my children with these photos when they are being brats. (Look what I have gone through! This was all for you! This bloody and bruised weenie was viciously ripped from my insides and it was all for you, do you even love me?!) As Dr. L. discovered, the fallopian tube must have been damaged during my appendectomy all those years ago. Who knew that the tiny, insignificantly unnecessary organ known as the “uppindicks” would have such a grave effect on my body? But, alas, it did.
Upon being released from the hospital—and after two returns back to the hospital to insert and then remove a catheter (a fun, little side bonus!)—I called to schedule our follow-up appointment with Dr. L. in which conception would be discussed.
“Okay, we will get you scheduled for a consultation regarding fertility, but prior to this one, we first need to go ahead and schedule an appointment for your husband,” said the cheerfully bored receptionist on the other end of the line.
“Yes, ma’am, he needs to provide a sample prior to the consultation.”
“A sample? What kind of samp—oh,” my thoughts quickly blurred from images of bruised weenie fallopian tubes to images of translucent Elmer glue. “Ewww, okay.”
You know how there’s usually one person in the relationship who thinks fart, poop, and other various bodily fluid jokes are hilarious? You also know how it’s usually the dude in the relationship who thinks fart, poop, and other various bodily fluid jokes are hilarious? Well, in our relationship, that dude is me. It’s not that my husband does not appreciate a good one every once in a while, he’s just not as vulgar as his elegantly classy wife. But, he is always gracious enough to give me a courtesy smile and a tender pat on the back after I have proudly recreated the various levels of pitch an older gentleman in my yoga class was able to reach while breaking wind in downward-facing dog.
“That’s a wonderful impression, my beautiful, beautiful wife,” he says often, mentally noting reason #783 why: divorce. (I do have to humbly interject that it takes quite a bit of talent to accurately imitate the sounds of a seeping toot as it slowly “meeeeeeeeeps” its way out of an older gentleman’s butthole).
So, instead of my husband bracing himself for his upcoming appointment, he spent the next few days bracing himself for all of the Spongebob Spooge-pants jokes coming out of his sophisticated wife’s mouth.
“Hey, about to have some water—you haven’t been “practicing” into this cup, have you?” giggled his future ex-wife seventeen times a day.
However, making jokes about the providing of a sample is one thing, but the actual providing of the sample is an entirely different ordeal. Numerous times a day, the nurses and assistants at the clinic instruct patients on the details of the “depositing of the sample.” While this is a fact, it is difficult to not believe that every single nurse in that office building is zeroing in on you and your husband, knowing exactly what is about to take place in that unwelcoming, beige room in the back corner of the office.
The room was just as you would probably picture it—cold, boring, a leather chair shoved up against a wall with a stack of magazines nestled awkwardly beside it. I wondered what kind of artwork might be revealed if I took a bluelight to the walls. Did guys try to spell out their names like when they pee in the snow? Is that a thing they do? My husband must have had similar thoughts because he just stood frozen in the very center of the room, refusing to touch anything. And of course, he made me join him in the stupid room, not to “help,” but for moral support. The last thing I wanted to do was go into the stupid room and bear witness to this terribly uncomfortable fiasco. But, alas, our future child was at stake, so I manned up, and joined him in the room of the bluelight special.
It was the most non-romantic, non-intimate moment in the history of non-pants moments.
Ew, what’s that by my foot??
That’s not funny!
Sorry, sorry, last spooge joke, I swear.
Wait, is that someone knocking on the door?
No, no one is knocking, calm down.
Can they see in here? Check the blinds one more time.
I’ve checked them seven times already.
Ah! What was that?!
You didn’t just hear that?
Go make sure the door is locked!
It’s locked, chill out! They can’t hear you, that’s why it’s called a “Silent Flute.”
Well then, stand there and hold the knob just in case.
Hehe, “hold the knob.”
Stop making penis jokes!
Okay, okay! Then hurry up, I’m getting hungry.
Quit pressuring me!
. . .so, um. . .what should we have for lunch?
I want a divorce. . .
And so it continued on until, somehow, he finally managed to complete the depositing of the sample.
With all of my female disabilities, we never even thought to consider that Davis may have an issue. So, when we sat down with Dr. L., we were not exactly prepared for what he had to say.
This is the part of our baby-seeking story that turns from hopeful to, well, hurtful. I have such conflicted feelings when I think about Dr. L. because he did a great job with the surgery, and had I not had a successful surgery, there truly was a great chance that I would never have been able to conceive. So, for that, I thank him. However, when we walked into that consultation regarding our chances for conception, everything took a rather depressing turn.
For anyone who knows even a little bit about fertility, they understand that the process of In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) is one of the last options you will eventually turn to after all other options have been exhausted. IVF is the process of manually combining an egg and sperm in a petri dish, and then attempting fertilization by transferring the embryo to the woman’s uterus. What many may not know is that the success rate of IVF is well-under 50%. Likewise, it is an extremely expensive procedure that costs between $12,000-$15,000 a pop. And by “pop,” I mean each time the procedure has to be attempted. So, if it doesn’t work the first time, make sure you have a backup twelve grand that you can throw at the doctor for a second round. With this said, Davis and I could not even place the thought of IVF within our mindset, let alone actually consider it, as we were still living on a ramen noodle and saltine cracker budget. (But, let’s have a baby! They don’t cost much!)
“Well,” said Dr. L. with a curt tongue. “Your penis and balls are worthless, and you are so far beneath being an actual man, we may as well go ahead and remove all traces of your manhood entirely.”
These were his exact words.*
*No, they were not.
While these were not his exact words, he might just as well have said them because what he actually did say pretty much had the same effect. Davis was beyond disappointed to learn that his man juice was “abnormal,” or so Dr. L. convinced us to believe. He then went on to show us example images of double-headed, irregular, gross little spermies. I pictured these cartoonish little creatures all huddled together, holding onto each other’s hand nubs and singing an off-key, inaudible version of kumbaya; all celebrating their shared sense of simple-minded halfwit, and their doofy, toothless grins, four eyeballs, and thirteen toes. “I is a spermy!” they shout as they happily clap their little hand nubs together. According to Dr. L., Davis’ little swimmers were nothing more than sad, little derps with zero chance of even finding the starting line for the race to the egg.
With Davis’ sperm rejects, my lonely fallopian tube, and our respective geriatric ages of thirty-one and twenty-nine, Dr. L. insisted we begin the process of IVF immediately as we would have zero chance of conception otherwise. Even with IVF, as he so gingerly worded it, we have a “very small chance of ever conceiving children. . .everrrrrrrrrrrr.”
After word-vomiting this downpour of unfortunate news, he took a moment for me to wipe away my tears.
Then he insisted again that we begin IVF as soon as possible.
And then after insisting, he insisted some more.
Despite his pressuring, however, I had previously spent hours of research on the routes taken for couples with fertility issues, so I knew damn well that, while even if our chances were slim, there were many options available prior to starting the expensive process of IVF.
“Listen here, jerkwad, I insist you shut your insisting poop of a mouth and give us some other options because there’s no way in hay’ll we can afford IVF,” I said, and then I swiftly punched him in the throat.*
*These were my exact words. And I did, in fact, throat-punch him.**
**No, they were not. I can’t even smush a spider.
Not only did I not understand why he would not even whisper a mention of other available options, I could not comprehend his abrupt change in what was once a seemingly compassionate and kind bedside manner. Even if there truly was zero hope for our chances of conception, could he at least attempt to try on a pair of kid gloves? Give us a small slice of hope? Spoonfeed into our mouths a teeny morsel of optimism from the bowl of positivity porridge?
But, alas, he did none of these things. And not only did he continue to push for IVF, he also harshly informed us that if we were to ever conceive, my chances of miscarriage before successfully carrying to nine months, were roughly around 98%. Meaning, I would definitely, without-a-doubt, miscarry my baby. And, of course, he was a doctor, so he knew the facts, right? . . . .Right?
Well, even if we wanted to give in to his pressuring, we didn’t have that kind of money, and we were not about to ask for help from our parents, or take out a loan, without even attempting to try other options. So, we insisted to at least try an IUI procedure first.
Intrauterine Insemination (IUI—or sometimes known on the street as the turkey baster method) is the fertility process in which an actual turkey baster* is used to inseminate your turkey uterus with a baby turkey human. First, I was to take the fertility drug Clomid that stimulates the ovaries to produce more egg follicles. Next, Davis was to re-enter the unwelcoming, beige depository room and provide an additional sample of his double-headed, abnormal derps. Following this, they would take his sample and “wash” the sperm to separate the actual semen from the seminal fluid. This is done in order to find the “best” of his thirteen-toed, seven-eyed swimmers possible. Finally, they would insert the chosen ones into my uterus using a turkey baster catheter, and we would hope for the best.
So, I began taking the Clomid, and we started the excruciatingly slow process of waiting five days until an ultrasound would be done to check the progress of the egg follicles and look for signs of ovulation. In the meantime, however, we continued to attempt to conceive the good, ol’ fashioned way.
As the next few days went by, my mind spun out of control, like a gradual tornado of anger and resentment, playing back the harrowing words spoken by the insistent Dr. L. Something about that conversation and his insistent pressuring about IVF, and his callous way of announcing I would definitely miscarry, had me really unsettled. I began to lose any remote sense of trust I once had in this man. How was I to know for certain all of these soul-crushing things he had thrown at us were entirely accurate? This was when I started to understand the concept of getting a second opinion. Why had I not thought of this before?
The day before we were supposed to go back for the ultrasound, I remembered a coworker once telling me her story of infertility and the wonderful clinic she and her husband went to that landed her a pair of healthy twin babies. That’s when I realized that we deserved a happy ending, too. And I was determined to get that.
That next day was the day I found myself in the passenger’s seat of our car, picking at the tiny morsel of some undetermined substance that had become glued to the passenger’s side window. I kept thinking about my friend’s happy ending, knowing in my heart that we would get ours, too. So, as we were driving down the highway on our way to the appointment with Dr. L.’s office that morning, I stopped picking. I stopped all the picking and abruptly told my husband to turn the car around. It did not take much convincing. And just like that, as we were once driving back down the road to disappointing uncertainty, my husband quickly whipped that car around and we headed north, on our way to Babytown.
Lock this motha’ up.
These were just a few of the words that were shouted with rage by an actual competent, trustworthy, and compassionate doctor at one of the best fertility clinics in the Southeast. Okay, okay, she didn’t shout these words, but upon reviewing all of the photos and write-ups from my most-recent medical history, as well as the results of Davis’ sample, our new doctor was noticeably upset by the misleading, if not nearly entirely false, information that was provided to us by Dr. L. and his clinic.
Of course, she noted that with my only having the one fallopian tube, I was not the textbook illustration of childbearing fertility, but was I a dried-up, lifeless barren desert of a wasteland? Her exact words were, “absolutely not.” She told us that especially considering that the myomectomy had essentially cleaned out any trace of endometriosis, my uterus was at an ideal place for conception. Likewise, after looking over Davis’ sample, she said she could not fathom why Dr. L. would lead us to believe that his goods were anything other than normal. While there was a small percentage of the sample that was not entirely “normal,” she noted that a lot of men tend to have some abnormalities in a sample, and his was not even remotely worth worrying about. Finally, she gave us the best news yet: there was no reason in this world that we should be any more worried about miscarrying than any other couple; there was nothing fundamentally “wrong” with me that would cause any additional concern of miscarrying. The relief was tremendous.
Our kind, new doctor was very hopeful in our chances of conception via an IUI, but the difference this time would be that she would provide us with much more information about the procedure, as well as an arsenal of magical fertility drugs that would greatly increase those chances. Unfortunately though, we could not start right away; we had to wait until I got my cycle again to start the process. In the meantime, we ordered the drugs, and waited.
And we waited.
And then we waited some more.
And then, when we were done waiting, we waited on the wait for the waiting to begin again.
I just didn’t understand it. After the myomectomy, I got my period almost like clockwork, so this was very disheartening. I thought, “Great, now something is wrong with my cycle, and now they’ll have to figure that out first, and by the time they figure that out, I’ll be fifty-two before we’ll ever be able to start the IUI process.”
It was June of that year, and while our momentary glimpse of hope seemed a bit more stifled, and I really didn’t feel like doing much of anything, we packed up and headed to the beach with my in-laws. I packed a swimsuit and some socks and stuff, but, mostly, I filled my suitcase entirely with dollar-store pregnancy tests. While I knew there was a very slight possibility that the reason behind my lack of period was because I was pregnant, I still thought if I peed on a stick every twenty minutes, that maybe, just maybe, double lines would magically appear and our troubles would be over.
This did not happen. I peed on many a stick. And I drank many a cocktail.
The week after we got back, we went to my parent’s house for a visit and a hug. The great thing about mommies is that no matter how old you get, when you’re down, you can always lay your head in your mommy’s lap and the sadness somehow dissipates. My mom always makes me feel so safe and protected, and I only hoped that one day, I could do the same for my son or daughter.
While getting the comfort I needed from my mom, I also spent that Monday morning in a satellite office of the fertility clinic getting poked and prodded, so they could figure out what was going on with my cycle—or lack thereof. The nurse was very sweet and cheery and reassuring that everything would be okay, but from recent past experience, I couldn’t help but feel that I was only a couple hours away from receiving very distressing news.
That afternoon, I sat on my parent’s couch struggling to fake a smile or have a normal conversation. Waiting on a phone call from a doctor’s office is like someone has placed a temporary, yet, very tight grip on your intestines, occasionally twisting them round like a rubber band. My stomach was so twisted up, I felt like vomiting. And so, I did. (Actually, I think hurled a few times that day.) While in the moment, I felt very “woe is me,” but tried to keep in mind that my experiences and my life at that moment compared nothing to those who were waiting on phone calls regarding much more detrimental news.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself!
You have all your arms and limbs!
All of your family is happy and healthy!
Quit being so selfish and negative!
You’re alive! Be happy, you pouty jerk!
It’s easy to remind yourself that there are many, much more dire situations in this world, but in the moment of your own woes, it’s hard to overcome those thoughts of self-pity.
So, when the phone rang later that afternoon, I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.
“May I speak with Caitlin?” the soft voice spoke on the other end of the line.
“This is she.”
“Hi Caitlin, this is Jackie from the clinic.”
“Well, Miss Caitlin, after looking over everything, we have figured out why you have not yet received your cycle this month.”
“Oh, okay,” I sighed and bit my shaking lip.
“I am so very happy to inform you that the reason you have not gotten your cycle yet this month is because you are already pregnant.”
I about dropped the phone. I could not believe the words coming out of her mouth. How could this be? We never went through with the IUI. We never even considered IVF (although it was insisted upon). I only took that one round of Clomid. How in the name of broken uteri could this have happened? It took me several minutes to scan through the past few months of blurred confusion to navigate to the bottom line: Does this Jackie woman mean to tell me that Davis was able to impregnate me the good ol’ fashioned way? Through good ol’ fashion sexual intercoursing? A regular ol’ game of hiding-the-hotdog? Picklin’ the peach? Plain ol’ peener and vageener? . . .Weenus and vageenus?
After she said many more happy words, most of which I do not remember, I quietly hung up the phone. My husband took me in his great, big arms, and for the first time in a very long time, I wept—not because I was frustrated or sad—but because I was happy.
I was going to have a baby.
My daughter is now 18 months old, and she is the most beautiful little weirdo I have ever met in my life. Her bizarre sense of humor, infectious giggles, and her sense of wonderment in the world around her give me purpose. I knew she was out there, somewhere, she just took a little longer than expected to get to me. But, she was well-worth the wait.
Caitlin lives in Auburn, Alabama with her vivaciously weird 21-month-old daughter, her freshly baked 2-week-old daughter, and her tall husband. When she is not writing, you will find her partaking in thrill-seeking activities such as sitting on the couch and avoiding phone calls.
In college I was known for wearing thrift store jeans and over-sized tee shirts. I smothered my insecurity in loose-fitting clothes and obvious sarcasm. Those around me, the few I tolerated, interpreted my indifference as attitude. However, they didn’t realize I suffered from a rare medical condition known as Resting Bitch Face, a disease described by unaccredited websites as a chronic expression of anger or disgust, which apparently made me unapproachable. While most who struggle with this affliction constantly reassure the public that it is just an uncontrollable feature of their personality, mine was a blessing. I was perfectly content being left alone. Well, not completely alone.
In fact, most of my post-pubescent existence was lacking a certain ceremonial rite of passage: having a boyfriend. I’d had one or two informal flings in my early teens, but I regretfully graduated high school with my virginity hanging over me like a Vegas marquee. I looked forward to college as an opportunity to find that life-altering love affair, or at least someone to fondle until the former arrived. Continue reading
My wife had selected Winnie the Pooh as our baby’s theme. “Classic, not Disney,” she’d often repeat to family and friends as they called to congratulate us and ask for suggestion on gifts or clothing.
Being new to all of this, I soon found out that matching and coordinating was a common expectation when it came to such things as babies and preparing a nursery. Together we had carefully selected everything from blankets, comforter and floor rug, to the Classic Pooh table lamp that would sit on the dresser.
So, at first I was a little worried about the dresser. According to the instructions I had everything I needed for assembly – Phillips screw driver, small adjustable wrench and hammer to tap the tiny black nails to the back of the unit to prevent it, as the instructions explained, from collapsing when finished. But, until I sliced open the box and let the pieces slide out precisely stacked as they had been when they left the shop floor half a world away, I did not know that the sand color of its smooth veneer finish was in fact an exact match to the sand colored trail of the wall boarder, on which a series of Pooh-Bears continuously roamed, night into day and day into night, honey pot in hand, appropriately accompanied by bees encircling the nursery at a height level with the top walnut railing of the crib. Continue reading
My ex-boyfriend has changed his profile picture.
Somehow this merits five minutes of acrobatic weeping, head lolling first against the bed frame, face smushed up with the rug and lint.
When you put it that way it is kind of funny.
When I was in sixth grade, my family moved to a town composed of four stoplights and air perpetually tinged with the smell of chicken shit. With the subjective delicacy of a middle school worldview, I adjusted to my new surroundings like a Harvard Ph.D. candidate dining in a Waffle House at 3 a.m. That is, with mere anthropological interest trimmed in judgment. Burgeoning teenage angst coupled with a superiority complex along with being new to a cohort of kids together since kindergarten lead to the inevitable: I made only one friend.
Her name was Tyler, and she hated it because it sounded too masculine. She tried adding her middle name “Anne,” which to me made her sound more like television redneck heroine Roseanne and less like a delicate feminine flower, but it never caught on anyway.
The first time I went to Tyler’s house, we were dropping her off after she had dinner with my family. Tyler and I sat in the back seat with my little brother, a second grader high on ADD medications. Continue reading
I once read that most people cannot tell the difference between pâté and cat food when it’s presented to them. I’ve seen the Fancy Feast commercial, so I don’t doubt it. Particularly bored scientists have done experiments and usually get the same results. A lot of people think they would be able to tell, but it seems like such a simple experiment I’m not certain people aren’t doing it all the time. Maybe there is a vast conspiracy of people serving cat food instead of pâté, just because they can. I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion that I could eat pâté a million times until I was sure I knew what pâté tasted like. Then I’d get another opportunity to eat pâté (or alternatively cat food), and my world would come crashing down. I’d be just another victim of the pâté-cat food schemery.
I feel much the same way about overhearing people having sex. I’m never really convinced I’ve overheard people in the throes of passion. It always happens the same way. I’ll be sitting there, minding my own business, and I’ll hear a sound. Usually a female sound. And after my reaction, saying, “Oh… well… hmm,” and clasping my hands for no reason like I’ve suddenly got to break bad news, I dismiss it. I laugh nervously. Surely, I’m not really overhearing sex, I think. A ton of things sound like people having sex: fight scenes in movies, songs with high pitched notes, really jovial laughter, or even people making awkward sounds in order to make eavesdroppers uncomfortable. And it feels awfully rude for me to assume a stranger is having a private moment when they might be doing something innocuous, like watching tennis or porn.
Late weeknight phone calls throw me into a panic — fearing news of car accidents, mangled kids, suddenly dead parents. I staggered across my bedroom to the dresser and fumbled to unplug my ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Jenny?” The voice of Nancy, my ex-mother-in-law, one of the few people who called me by the childish name I no longer used. Nancy called me frequently – sometimes too frequently – and always started her phone calls with my name as a question, as if she weren’t sure who would answer at the number she seemed to have on speed dial.
“Yeah,” I responded, relieved but annoyed, assuming I was awoken for something inconsequential.
“Joe’s dead,” she said. Just like that – two and a half syllables forming a sentence akin to being stabbed with a paring knife. She continued speaking calmly, as if she were giving me directions to her house instead of telling me that her son – my ex-husband and the father of my teenage sons – was dead at forty. I couldn’t hear her words any longer, just the murmur of her voice. My mind drifted to the last time Joe and I had spoken. He sounded happy. I should’ve known something was wrong. Continue reading