Truth be told, I am quite upset with my baby maker these days. Why is being a woman so difficult? I spent my entire youth trying not to get pregnant, only to be on a desperate baby rampage in my thirties. Trying to get pregnant is a sensitive subject, I get it, but I am not afraid to speak about it.
Many women keep quiet about the trials and tribulations of getting pregnant, either out of embarrassment, pride, etc, so when difficulties happen with you, YOU start to feel like the problem. Why me? What is wrong with me? How are all these b*tches around me getting pregnant? Why is MY baby maker on strike? These are my actual thoughts right now as a sit in Starbucks next to some pregnant chick. B*itch.
The whole ‘trying for a baby‘ process is like a bad dream. Scratch that, more like a freakin’ nightmare. Each month I jump on the crazy baby train begging to be dropped off in pregnant-ville, yet the a**hole conductor has yet to let me off. So here I am almost a year later holding my first class ticket without my glass of champagne. This first class is complete rubbish.
When we first started trying, we were told to have sex every day after my period. Then we were told doing this would only lower sperm counts, so we need to have sex every other day instead. Then came my thyroid problem, so I was put on medication. Then I was told my progesterone was low, which explained why my eggs were not able to attach to the uterine wall, resulting in a miscarriage. Next my doctor suggested I quit my job, because the stress was too much. Lastly, she told me I am getting old and only have a certain amount of eggs left. Awesome! Defending my eggs I blurted out, “But I still feel so young! Women have babies into their forties for Christ sake! I am only thirty -five, just turned thirty-five.” My sensitive doctor replied, “But you are still thirty-five, let’s call it what it is.” She told me to get ovulation kits and try a couple more months before we had to meet again.
Equipped with all this information, I went to CVS to buy ovulation and pregnancy tests. After I filed bankruptcy from my CVS bill, I downloaded the app, AESOP Fertility. This app tracks my monthly cycle. It shows a green dot when my eggs are ready, and a red dot when I should be prepared for another month of heartache. Once my cycle starts, I have to rub progesterone cream on my hands nightly. When the green dot finally shows, it was go time.
My husband doesn’t mind the beginning of ‘go time’, but wants to kill me by the end. I constantly boss him around, “No, this way. No, that way!” After the deed I have to lay with my legs in the air and a pillow under my hips for twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. Way to kill the fun. The worst part is when you stand up after those twenty minutes to go to the bathroom. Ladies you know what I am talking about. Vomit.
The next few weeks are always a blur. Any little hot flash, dizzy spell, hunger pain, twinge of the uterus I immediately think, I’m pregnant! When the time comes to take a test, it always shows negative. From there the denial sets in. Maybe it’s too early. This test is wrong. I know I am pregnant! Then I take another test, negative again. I wait. A few days later the spotting starts. Maybe the egg is implanting, I read you spot sometimes during this process. I wait. The real bleeding starts. I then realize I am not pregnant, I just wasted all that money on those stupid pregnancy tests, and I cry. I cry because my plan didn’t work. I cry because there is no baby. Finally, I cry because I know next month I will have to do this all over again.
If we don’t get pregnant soon, I have to take a pill which helps you ovulate, however increases your chances of multiples. Great, just what I needed. Sorry Kate, but ‘Holly Plus Eight’ doesn’t work for me. If that magic pill doesn’t work, I’ll have to start seeing a fertility specialist. Any specialist scares me.
Everyone always says, “At least you already have your son.” Which is true, but I long for a bigger family and not getting pregnant hurts just as much, regardless of what number kid it is. Plus, my son needs a sibling to keep him occupied while I write all these blog posts for you ladies!
Please send your good vibes and baby making mantras, as I can’t take many more months of this vicious cycle – sober, at least.