I Should Have Been a Computer Science Major
When you struggle with fertility, you have a lot of bad days. At the very least, you have one really bad day a month. But there are other days scattered about that can be just as traumatic as learning that you have, once again, come up empty (so to speak).
There was the day that my wife’s doctor suggested I try to get a job at Microsoft because their insurance is particularly good about covering infertility (hooray for late stage capitalism!). When I asked if Microsoft had a lot of openings for part-time writers who moonlight in watercolor pet portraits, she was understandably stymied*
*They don’t. I checked.
You Don’t Know My Life, Glow App
There was the day that the Glow App (everyone’s favorite stress-inducing cycle tracker) insisted it was time to get down and dirty. Never mind that both of us had the worst colds of our adult lives. Unable to breathe, hopped up on NyQuil and swathed in six inches of flannel and terry cloth, Nevertheless We Persisted. To this day, Rachael and I consider that act - which had to be paused on more than one occasion to accommodate coughing fits and nose blowing - to be the least erotic moment of each of our lives. This in and of itself is a kind of victory.*
*We take our victories wherever we can get them.
Obviously our miscarriage ranks high upon the list of bad days, but that event deserves at least one blog post of its own, so we’ll circle back around to that later (always assuming I manage to make more than three blog posts per-year, which is my record thus far).
Those Old Fainting Goat Blues
My favorite worst day was our first attempt at an IUI*. For my wife this was an invasive, emotionally charged, painful procedure. The IUI had no impact on my body whatsoever, all I had to do was provide a sample** and be supportive. It would take a Herculean effort on my part to, as they say across the pond, cock it up. That I managed to do just that - by fainting and coming within millimeters of cracking my skull on a counter top - should therefore come as no surprise to anyone.
*Intrauterine Insemination - or what my wife’s doctor helpfully described as “that old turkey baster technique.”
**A story unto it’s own. It involves a thirty minute timer, a bio hazard cup, road construction, and a spectacularly unhelpful rural hospital front office staff.
The IUI started out well enough (for me, I mean - for Rachael it was terrible from start to finish). I was standing there making the appropriate cooing noises and hand strokes. But then I heard the doctor say “I’m going to reach in and twist your uterus*** around,” and this was apparently too much for my delicate sensibilities. I went over like a sixteen-year-old Victorian girl with a strategically timed attack of the vapors****.
*I really can’t stress this enough - I fainted because I heard a doctor describe something he was doing to my wife. I was not, repeat, not, the one having my uterus twisted around**
**Primarily because I don’t have a uterus .
***Originally I wrote this as “cervix” and was quickly corrected by she who’s uterus was twisted.
****I read somewhere that the Victorian fainting trend had more to do with wallpaper fumes than tight corsets, but a cursory google search failed to turn up the relevant article.
When I woke up, the amount of nurses in the room had doubled. Someone was pressing a wet towel to my forehead, and another someone was taking my pulse. Another-another someone was insisting that I not stand up. And my wife was, quite understandably, more concerned about the hands that were rummaging around inside her lady-bits. I don’t remember if she was laughing or crying, but it might have been a bit of both.
Because I was gallant and brave, but also not allowed to stand up because I might kill myself out of pure squeamishness, I scooted across the floor to re-take my wife’s hand. And eight days later we found out we weren’t pregnant.
And THAT, friends and readers, was Our Worst Day (So Far). Not the day of the shitty, invasive, painful, husband-fainting-inducing procedure, but the day we learned it was all for naught. Herein is the insidious thing about struggling with fertility - it’s a lot of work - and pain - and stress - and money - to achieve something that most couples manage to do more-or-less by accident (and while having fun to boot*).
Know what I mean?
*HOPEFULLY they are having fun, right?
author’s note: the above represents my first attempt to channel the confusing, painful, often hilarious emotions that come with fertility issues and adoption into some kind of useful outlet. If well-received, I’ll write some more. So, if you struggle with these issues, or know someone who is, please share! The goal is to build a community around stories that are, all too often, hidden in silence and misplaced shame. Also, feel free to leave a comment.