The HSG was invasive, painful and scary. I should detail it more, talk about it more, specifically because it needs to be talked about, but right now all I can think of is how to adjust to this new idea of conception.
There is great and good news in knowing that there is nothing keeping John and I from creating a healthy baby. His sperm is viable and I’m ovulating and we are both in the B range for where we need to be. This is overwhelmingly beautiful news, because I was unwilling to force a pregnancy that wasn’t supposed to be on it’s own. I didn’t want to trick my body into creating an embryo that wouldn’t come on it’s own, and if that was the case this would have been the end of our pregnancy dreams. But it isn’t and wasn’t and now we move forward.
The problem then lies in the right amount of his sperm reaching my eggs in the right amount of time. So my cervix maybe isn’t the most conducive for this, and possibly his sperm isn’t ejaculating as forcefully as needed, and it is probably a combination of the two. That leaves us where, exactly?
AI. Artificial Insemination. No hormones, or at least nothing major, and nothing altering the state of our bodies. But it means a cup and a hospital and a catheter, and yes—it also most probably means Danger. A guarantee? No, but very good odds.
It also means changing our dreams of conception. And this is harder than it may sound, but this isn’t how either of us imagined bringing our child into our lives—surrounded by doctors, laying on a cold metal table wearing a thin paper dress, the sounds of beeping medical instruments filling the space while a surgical instrument painfully injects my partner’s sperm into me in the span of five minutes. It isn’t what we imagined or wanted.
Honestly, and I think that is important here, it has been two months since we have had sex. Two months of none of this type of intimacy because I couldn’t fail again. Because this new way of being is taking time adjusting too. Because it changes things. It just does. Whether it should or it shouldn’t.
Right now we are being stubborn and perhaps naive and we are saying, “This is achievable! If doctors can do it, then we can do it!” And we are ready to start trying again on our own. I’ll stand on my head and cross my fingers and hope gravity helps.
We don’t know how long we will try. How many more months we can take of negative tests. But we just aren’t ready to readjust our dream yet. We aren’t ready to go into that room for that procedure. We still have a little bit of hope yet. A little bit of hope.
I’m home and resting. Things went well, but the procedure was difficult. I will update more later, because there is so much to say, but I wanted to again thank all of you for your love and support.
One more benchmark down on our road to Danger.
We’re coming for you, baby.
Thank you for the information! I’ll be going in today at 2. I plan to take two Aleve first and then sooth the pain with wine after. But this—this is what I’m talking about—the fact that no one tells you really what it is going to be like, leaving you scared and nervous.
Thank you for reaching out, for sharing and for beginning to create a community of women who are talking and sharing. Truly.
The women in my life are amazing. From my sister’s text messages to my mom and her thoughtfulness through this entire process and her wine to the women in my book club who have reached out with love and shared experiences and hope to Elizabeth who gave me Skittles for after the procedure to Tara who sent flowers and the most beautiful emails and texts to Amy who sent me a handwritten card to Valerie and other Tumblrs who sent messages and emails and clicked little hearts.
I will never be able to thank you enough. Your love lifts me up.
I read about the procedure online and I'm really scared.
It will be okay! My friend had it done twice. I can get oxycotin, percocet and vicadin from friends if you want it. Or a chilled resiling! :)
WINE AFTER! Promise?
You bet! It will be okay! Worth it!
I know. I keep telling myself that. I just don't do great with medical stuff. Can't help it. If they let you will you come in with me?
Absolutely! Even if they won't let me I will! I can be sneaky!
Tomorrow I go in for my hysterosalpingogram, which you can find more information about here.
And to be honest, I am terrified. I’m nervous about the pain and uncomfortable about what feels like an invasion of my body. More people’s hands inside me, more foreign objects penetrating me. And maybe this is why I don’t know anyone who has done this, when surely I do? No one talks about this because it is so invasive and uncomfortable and scary.
I’m frustrated and sad and questioning why I’m doing this. Is this what I want? We want a child, but this? Why does this have to be part of it? And so I’m mourning this experience and the fact that again we can’t have a pregnancy that doesn’t involve what feels like this medical intrusion.
John won’t be with me tomorrow, because even in all this we still have to work, but my mom will be there and all I can hope is that I make it through without an anxiety attack because I know there isn’t an option where I make it through without sobbing.
John’s sperm count came back strong at 27 million and 75% mobility. This puts us well above where we need to be in order to conceive. While this has brought us some relief, it also means that the problem is me, we just don’t know what it is yet.
I have an x-ray scheduled for next Friday. It is supposed to fall after I stop bleeding and before I ovulate. I’m unsure as to what exactly to expect and want to call and ask questions but also almost don’t want to know because then all I’ll do is worry. I know that in some way dye will be injected into my fallopian tubes so that they can x-ray the flow of the dye through my tubes and uterus to look for any blockages. How that dye is injected is beyond me. My mom and I are both confused about that, but again, do I really want to know? (If it involves a needle then no, no I do not.) I’m been told to take high doses of NSAIDS about two hours before the procedure, which is never comforting, because of the cramping and then I should plan to spot and lightly bleed for 3-4 days after. Another difficult thought.
My mom offered to be there with me, which was really comforting. I didn’t ask and when she offered I told her that I’m not supposed to need anyone to take me—that I’m supposed to be able to walk out after myself—and she said she knew that but she just wanted to be there with me so I wouldn’t have to be alone.
This is another of these moments where it is good to be moving forward but also scary and somewhat difficult because this again isn’t something I ever considered needing to do.
We hope for blockage, though, because that is the easiest thing to fix. So, if you are a praying person, please pray for peace and comfort for me as I go for this procedure next Friday. Whatever the outcome, it is what is supposed to be, but also while you’re praying if you wouldn’t mind asking for an answer that would be nice too.
I’ve started having these moments of panic where I will look at a snapshot of someone’s life with their child with longing and a sudden flash comes to me, this realization, that all those things I’ve dreamed of might not happen. All those experiences that I never really considered but were always there, hopeful and waiting…they might not come true.
And please, don’t tell me they will and that something will happen because the reality is that they might not. We might not have babies. I’m sitting here in pain, bleeding because we alone can’t make a baby. And that in itself is something I am mourning. John and I will never have the moment that I’ve watched so many people have of getting excited seeing those double lines creep across a pregnancy test after a few exciting months, or less. We will never be there and now this process will never have not included uncomfortable exams and ejaculating in cups and being poked with needles. John and I together have not made a baby. And maybe we never will. Maybe we can’t. And I’m doing my best to try to wait and see but you have to understand that often in my life the waiting and the seeing has ended very badly, and those devastating results could be our reality. Not every two people can make a baby together. And I might not get to be a mother. And I paused as I typed that because it hurts and I feel very alone and I wish there was someone else I knew who has been here because I just need someone to tell me I’m not crazy and honestly validate how much this hurts.
I’m so tired of not being pregnant and so frustrated that every month I get hopeful for no reason at all other than the fact that we are trying and doing everything we are supposed to and why shouldn’t this be the moment that it all comes together?
But it hasn’t and it doesn’t and it didn’t.
I started my period today and I’m sitting here really angry at myself because for some reason I honestly had this moment of thinking that maybe this would be the month because we had taken those first steps and I’m sitting here looking at the book subtitled “A Modern Guido to Overcoming Infertility” and, like, I felt like that should mean something and that maybe it was time for the universe to say yes to us. But it didn’t and I’m bleeding and crying and really, really angry at myself for feeling hopeful and like Mexico was somehow special or different or what we needed because fucking goddammit that’s not how it works and it’s not how it is going to work and I just need to fucking accept that something is wrong and this might not happen for us.
I’m just splintering apart. I honestly feel like I’m just tearing apart.