Here’s how crazy I am: I felt nauseated and was almost certain I was seeing spots … before I took the Clomid. I’ve been so nervous about side effects, I started imagining them well before I took the first pill.
I’ve been feeling a little depressed lately about how much of this whole infertility struggle is on me.
Don’t get me wrong: my husband is supportive and as involved as he can be. Plus, you know, there’s the whole having to masturbate outside the privacy of his own home thing, which I imagine most men are carefully taught not to do, starting at a very young age.
But still, all of the medical risk and most of the aggravation are on my side. I realized that right at the start, of course, because I’d been trying to get pregnant for years, which naturally involves a lot of thinking that one might be pregnant, and scanning the ol’ body for signs of same. (And the signs are all gross: swelling, nausea, nipple changes, etc.)
But it really struck me how unfair all this is when we sat down with our reproductive endocrinologist to make a plan.
I have eggs. Maybe even good ones. This is big news.
The hormone panels were a little inconclusive. My AMH levels were good … so good that my doctor was suspicious, especially when my FSH levels showed possibly diminished ovarian reserve.
The transvaginal ultrasound, which is like a regular ultrasound, only from the inside out, using a sort of robot dildo to take the pictures, showed healthy ovaries and several follicles, however, which means that we can’t count out the ol’ egg basket yet.
I don’t know what it is about dealing with infertiles, but people really seem to want to tell us that we should adopt. Never mind that adopting isn’t easy, inexpensive, or right for everyone. In most people’s minds, it’s as simple as trotting down to the orphanage and picking out little orphan Annie.
Even people who know better will suggest that adoption is the way to go. A really good friend of mine, one of the single nicest, most intuitive, and most emotionally intelligent people I know, recently suggested adoption to me in the most horrifying way I can imagine.
“Don’t close the door,” she said. “I could see you, in 10 years or so, really falling in love with an older child and being so happy you opened your home to them.”
“Did I do something to upset you?” I asked. “Because I don’t know why you’d say something like that to me otherwise.”
We have an appointment at a fertility clinic. I am pre-depressed just thinking about it.