I always wondered how this story was going to start. Perhaps fueled by the certainty that conceiving would be so easy for us, I envisioned that my first post would mark the beginning of my pregnancy. Such naïveté should probably confirm that I was indeed a Pollyanna, or maybe merely ill-informed about my own body and, subsequently, my fertility.
My high school was very detailed about sex education. Between the giggle fits and blushed pimple faces we learned about all birth control methods, sexually transmitted diseases with graphic pictures and honest conversations. In a somewhat polemic move, the principal of my school distributed condoms before carnival under the “better safe than sorry” guise. Throughout my entire high school life I had only seen two pregnant kids in my school. One was a transfer who was expelled from catholic school when the school found out she was pregnant. The other simply ignored everything we were taught. Sex talks in my house were always welcome and no question was ever censored. I was a lucky teenager armed with all prevention knowledge a teenager could have. The following high school year our biology curriculum focused on embryology and genetics. There was a hint of irony in the Sex Education -> Embryology/Genetics sequence that was lost in my teen mind… but I diverge.
Perhaps such emphasis on how to prevent led us to (erroneously) believe that having a baby was as easy as not using birth control, having a drink, and going to the back of a car. Two weeks later you would be hurling your breakfast and gushing over cribs while waiting for our bundle of joy to make an appearance. We “knew” exactly how to do it and how to prevent it! Ha! We knew nothing about making babies.
Throughout my twenties I obsessed with every period that was a mere couple of days late. How could this be? I was “never” late!! Tears were shared with best friends along with “what will I do now” conversations regarding children that never existed. As I applied myself towards two degrees, worked, interned, and maintained a social life, my life was blissfully child-free. I had all the time in the world and no hurry to fall in love, get married, and start a family. And I just “knew” that once I wanted to have kids all I had to do was toss the birth control aside. That’s what I was taught.
Many years later I met the love of my life. A cute, somewhat shy, and amazing man swept my rebel heart and I finally said “I do.” It wasn’t too long before we decided to have kids. And I did what I knew. On October 2010 I stopped taking the birth control pill and we decided to start trying on February 2011 following a microsurgery I had to undergo. Thus began the most brutally frustrating journey of our married life: Trying (unsuccessfully) to have a baby.
The first month was disappointing. The second was a little better psychologically speaking. As we hit six months and not a single positive test, we started realizing this wasn’t as easy as we originally thought. My feelings ranged from disappointment, to frustration, to anger, to sheer numbness, until finally what I now call “hopeful desperation.” My husband’s feelings seemed to range from indifferent, to annoyed, to a bit frustrated, and now he seems to have joined me in the hopeful (though not yet desperate for him) train.
We hit the dreaded one year mark. We are looking for answers to questions we haven’t even formulated yet. We are hopeful for a smooth ending while ready for a bumpy ride. Whatever it will be it is our journey, but one that you are welcome to follow.