The Beginning
I've never not wanted to be a mother. Literally from the time I was 15, I wanted a child. I knew I had to wait. I knew that it was important for me to finish high school, to go off to college, to live a life, travel, figure out what I wanted to do with my life. So, I did. I went to college, I studied abroad, I went from college into Grad school, I found what I wanted to do with my life. I moved, I fell in love, I got married, I bought a house. I did all the things I was supposed to do - I lived.
There are likely scads of people out there, young parents who had kids "too early" or at an inopportune time, before they were ready, before they had lived, or figured out their careers, or saw the world, or earned degrees. People who regret that they didn't wait.
I promised myself if I was still single and childless at 30, I would look into a sperm donor and artificial insemination. Because I knew no matter what else was going on in my life, I wanted to be a mom. I needed to be a mom. Then, I fell hard for my partner, and we discussed having kids, early in the relationship, because it was something I knew was non-negotiable for me.
We dated, we got married, we were living in a postage stamp apartment. So we waited. Another three years went by. We decided, okay, it's almost time. Almost. We needed a house first. So, we bought a house, we moved, we waited for things to settle down, to recover financially from buying our first house. There was a yard that needed to be fenced. A house that needed a little work to be ready for a little one. We waited.
Thirty came, and we decided, now. Yes. Now. We're ready. I thought finally. Fifteen years, I've wanted this for fifteen years, and now it's time. I'll stop birth control. We'll stop preventing. I'll track my period, and we'll have lots of fun in the bedroom (and elsewhere) and we're here, we're ready. We got this.
A month passed, I felt a twinge... oh, is this it? Is this my first sign of pregnancy? Are we there already? We tried to temper our excitement, we really really did, but it was hard. My period came. Well, that sucks. But it's only been a month. We'll just keep trying.
A second month passed. My period came like clockwork. But even then, even though I wasn't even a day late, I hoped, because well, the Universe has kind of been shit to me (and us) as of late, and I'm due for a break, right?
A third month passed, same result, or lack thereof. I called the doctor. I'd been told years prior I had PCOS. If you're not familiar, PCOS stands for polycystic ovarian syndrome. It's a nasty combination of symptoms, including insulin resistance, hormone imbalances, cysts on the ovaries, and... a lack of egg production. I'd known, through all of my wanting, all of my hoping, that I might have trouble conceiving. But I'd (foolishly) hoped we'd get lucky.
I should know by now I'm not that lucky.
"It's too early to intervene," the doctor said. "Call me for a workup if you haven't conceived by month six."
More waiting. More hoping. More putting life on hold. Oh, I can't make plans for vacation in six months, what if I'm pregnant? No, we can't commit to that, honey, what if we have a newborn? More waiting.
The six-month mark approached quickly, but also at a glacier pace, all at once. That pesky theory of relativity bites again.
The work-up began. I became a human pin-cushion, a humanoid lab rat. This was nothing new to me. I'd had my first gynecologist at 9 (because even then PCOS was rearing its fugly head, causing unbearable cramping, a period cycle at 13-18 days instead of 28, and cysts appearing on my ovaries which almost led to the doctors removing one of them), I also have other health conditions. I've had multiple specialists over the years: gyn, dermatology, pulmonology, gastroenterology, endocrinology. I've been poked and prodded and then some for years. It's never really gotten to me.
Until now.
Until it mattered so much I can't see straight. Until every tiny bump in the road was like an insurmountable mountain. Until every obstacle in my path was one more reason I couldn't hold a baby in my arms.
It's invasive. It's dehumanizing. It hurts.
The tests are not uncomfortable; they're fucking painful. If one more thing gets shoved up where the sun don't shine, I might lose my damned mind.
But, I toughed it out. I dealt with it, even though every new horror was a blow to the gut. The blood work, the meds, the tracking, peeing on sticks until actually sitting on the toilet was a novelty. And then, there was the sex on command. "Oh not tonight, honey, we have to wait another two days." or "We're both barely able to keep our eyes open, but oh, well. Have to do our duty" - like sex was just a job.
It was stressful. It sucked.
The seventh month came, and the worst test to date. The dreaded HSG test, where they ensure your Fallopian tubes are clear, that there's no blockage stopping an egg from dropping and getting where it needs to be.
It wasn't the fact that it's basically performed in an operating room. It wasn't the fact that I was mostly naked, and there were four people in the room with me. It wasn't even the ick factor of radioactive goo all up in my lady bits. I coped. I was okay... until I wasn't.
"The worst part's over. You did great," the Dr. said.
She was wrong.
I started to bleed. Not excessively, not in danger of bleeding out or anything, but enough that it needed to be stopped. That gauze and cotton and a long metal tool had to follow up into the abyss and be held there to stem the blood. I. Was. Done.
I had reached my tipping point. "Nope. Stop. It's got to come out. RIGHT. NOW."
She listened. Thank God she listened. Because if that stuff had stayed inside me another second, I would have lost my mind.
But taking it out was worse. I swear I could feel the edges of the bloody cotton scrape along every inch of my insides as it came out.
The room swam. I lay there for a bit. I could breathe again. The pain started to subside. I was empty. Blissfully empty.
She checked on me. We chatted. I didn't move. The room was starting to right itself. I was ready to sit up. I sat. The room dimmed, pitched, my belly lurched.
The worst part's over.
But it wasn't. Not by a long shot. This was only the beginning.
There are likely scads of people out there, young parents who had kids "too early" or at an inopportune time, before they were ready, before they had lived, or figured out their careers, or saw the world, or earned degrees. People who regret that they didn't wait.
I promised myself if I was still single and childless at 30, I would look into a sperm donor and artificial insemination. Because I knew no matter what else was going on in my life, I wanted to be a mom. I needed to be a mom. Then, I fell hard for my partner, and we discussed having kids, early in the relationship, because it was something I knew was non-negotiable for me.
We dated, we got married, we were living in a postage stamp apartment. So we waited. Another three years went by. We decided, okay, it's almost time. Almost. We needed a house first. So, we bought a house, we moved, we waited for things to settle down, to recover financially from buying our first house. There was a yard that needed to be fenced. A house that needed a little work to be ready for a little one. We waited.
Thirty came, and we decided, now. Yes. Now. We're ready. I thought finally. Fifteen years, I've wanted this for fifteen years, and now it's time. I'll stop birth control. We'll stop preventing. I'll track my period, and we'll have lots of fun in the bedroom (and elsewhere) and we're here, we're ready. We got this.
A month passed, I felt a twinge... oh, is this it? Is this my first sign of pregnancy? Are we there already? We tried to temper our excitement, we really really did, but it was hard. My period came. Well, that sucks. But it's only been a month. We'll just keep trying.
A second month passed. My period came like clockwork. But even then, even though I wasn't even a day late, I hoped, because well, the Universe has kind of been shit to me (and us) as of late, and I'm due for a break, right?
A third month passed, same result, or lack thereof. I called the doctor. I'd been told years prior I had PCOS. If you're not familiar, PCOS stands for polycystic ovarian syndrome. It's a nasty combination of symptoms, including insulin resistance, hormone imbalances, cysts on the ovaries, and... a lack of egg production. I'd known, through all of my wanting, all of my hoping, that I might have trouble conceiving. But I'd (foolishly) hoped we'd get lucky.
I should know by now I'm not that lucky.
"It's too early to intervene," the doctor said. "Call me for a workup if you haven't conceived by month six."
More waiting. More hoping. More putting life on hold. Oh, I can't make plans for vacation in six months, what if I'm pregnant? No, we can't commit to that, honey, what if we have a newborn? More waiting.
The six-month mark approached quickly, but also at a glacier pace, all at once. That pesky theory of relativity bites again.
The work-up began. I became a human pin-cushion, a humanoid lab rat. This was nothing new to me. I'd had my first gynecologist at 9 (because even then PCOS was rearing its fugly head, causing unbearable cramping, a period cycle at 13-18 days instead of 28, and cysts appearing on my ovaries which almost led to the doctors removing one of them), I also have other health conditions. I've had multiple specialists over the years: gyn, dermatology, pulmonology, gastroenterology, endocrinology. I've been poked and prodded and then some for years. It's never really gotten to me.
Until now.
Until it mattered so much I can't see straight. Until every tiny bump in the road was like an insurmountable mountain. Until every obstacle in my path was one more reason I couldn't hold a baby in my arms.
It's invasive. It's dehumanizing. It hurts.
The tests are not uncomfortable; they're fucking painful. If one more thing gets shoved up where the sun don't shine, I might lose my damned mind.
But, I toughed it out. I dealt with it, even though every new horror was a blow to the gut. The blood work, the meds, the tracking, peeing on sticks until actually sitting on the toilet was a novelty. And then, there was the sex on command. "Oh not tonight, honey, we have to wait another two days." or "We're both barely able to keep our eyes open, but oh, well. Have to do our duty" - like sex was just a job.
It was stressful. It sucked.
The seventh month came, and the worst test to date. The dreaded HSG test, where they ensure your Fallopian tubes are clear, that there's no blockage stopping an egg from dropping and getting where it needs to be.
It wasn't the fact that it's basically performed in an operating room. It wasn't the fact that I was mostly naked, and there were four people in the room with me. It wasn't even the ick factor of radioactive goo all up in my lady bits. I coped. I was okay... until I wasn't.
"The worst part's over. You did great," the Dr. said.
She was wrong.
I started to bleed. Not excessively, not in danger of bleeding out or anything, but enough that it needed to be stopped. That gauze and cotton and a long metal tool had to follow up into the abyss and be held there to stem the blood. I. Was. Done.
I had reached my tipping point. "Nope. Stop. It's got to come out. RIGHT. NOW."
She listened. Thank God she listened. Because if that stuff had stayed inside me another second, I would have lost my mind.
But taking it out was worse. I swear I could feel the edges of the bloody cotton scrape along every inch of my insides as it came out.
The room swam. I lay there for a bit. I could breathe again. The pain started to subside. I was empty. Blissfully empty.
She checked on me. We chatted. I didn't move. The room was starting to right itself. I was ready to sit up. I sat. The room dimmed, pitched, my belly lurched.
The worst part's over.
But it wasn't. Not by a long shot. This was only the beginning.
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