by The Wannabe Mom
Ke$ha has a new hit single called “Your Love Is My Drug.” I have that song stuck in my head right now. I’m not embarrassed to say I love it.
These days my drugs are not love. They are Femara, Ovidrel and Prometrium with a side of Synthroid thrown in for good measure (and an underactive thyroid).
How did I get here? How did this girl — who is in her 20s, healthy, active, has normal periods and unprotected sex with a man she loves — get here?
Easy. I want something. I can’t have it. I’ll go to any lengths to get it. That’s how I got here.
Before I decided to “try to get pregnant,” I swore I would never take fertility drugs. I knew too many crazy women who took them, and I always thought to myself, “Maybe there’s a reason you can’t get pregnant!”
Back then, I thought if you couldn’t get pregnant without drugs or procedures, maybe you shouldn’t get pregnant.
That was before.
That was before six months of not using protection (pulling the goalie, as my hubby calls it) and hoping for a “surprise.” Ya, right. The only surprise I had was an early period at the end of cycle four on a day I decided to wear white pants.
That was before another six months of “actively trying” — taking my resting temperature every morning, checking cervical mucus (gross, right? Not if you are in our boat!), peeing on ovulation predictor sticks all month until you see two dark lines, jumping your husband’s bones every day during your “fertile window,” laying for 30 minutes after sex with your hips elevated or legs in the air or standing on your freaking head and researching every moment of every day to find out why you’re not getting a big, fat positive on a home pregnancy test — or 7,000 home pregnancy tests.
That was before I lost it.
After 12 months of trying to conceive a child, my period came. Again. And I absolutely broke down. Sobbing. Snot coming from my nose. Mascara everywhere. Wailing. Cursing. Gagging. A total mess. I was that crazy woman. I looked at myself –at this pathetic wannabe-mom I had become — and I got it.
I regretted ever judging those women who took fertility drugs or participated in fertility procedures. I regretted judging their decision to help their situation, to nudge their eggs and their hubby’s sperm in the right direction. To fulfill their dream of becoming a mom.
I finally got it — empathy.
Empathy comes from walking a mile, or twelve unsuccessful cycles, in another woman’s shoes. It comes from seeing infertility through tear-filled eyes. It comes from starting your period month after month and suffering a loss each and every time. And, mourning that loss just like a death.
That isn’t crazy. It’s human.
I can’t expect anyone to understand empathy or show empathy if they’re not walking in these uncomfortable patent-leather-peep-toe-infertility-pumps too. But, I can hope that those women who are judging me, and all of us infertile gals, are reading this. And that they’ll keep those “You are crazy!” sentiments to themselves.
But our chances are just a little better than they were before. It’s already been three months of trying with their assistance.
Still nothing. Maybe we need more love. Maybe we need more drugs. Maybe we need more crazy. Maybe we need more cowbell.
Or, maybe we just need more patience until we get the right mix of all four.