Halbastram & I met over 11 years ago, and almost immediately, we knew this was going to be a long term thing for us. So we would nonchalantly start planning our future: where we would live, what I would do for a living, the places we would travel, the kids we would have. That last one was especially one of our favorite topics, as downtime would be filled with what pop culture name we would bestow upon our children. A superfan of the hit 80s TV show “The Fall Guy,” I decided that my first born son would be named Colt. We even got our family on board with little Colt, and in the time leading up to and after our marriage, we would talk about the soon-to-arrive Colt and all of the love he’d receive from his family.
Over time, that enthusiasm all but faded out. After eight years of marriage, we didn’t have to explicitly say it for most people to figure it out on their own. Simply put, conception wasn’t written in the stars for us. We figured this out on our own within the first few months of marriage. Of course, we knew that sometimes it takes time and that baby-making isn’t always as simple as just laying down together, as multiple episodes of Maury would have you believe. Six months later, however, we knew that we needed to perhaps speak with someone.
For the better part of 2008 (like ALL of 2008), I was in and out of specialists’ offices, having all manners of tests run on me to make sure that my parts were in working order. After pushing our health insurance to its limits and being put in as many uncomfortable positions as the lady doctor’s could think of, I was cleared as having a healthy, perfectly working reproductive system. That meant Halbastram needed to make sure his man parts were in perfect working order as well.
But before that could happen, 2009 happened: the year that we lost everything. Jobs, cars, condo, livelihood. And health insurance. Suddenly, with new problems on the table- such as, how are we going to feed ourselves today?- the thought of bringing new life into the world seemed like a distant concern.
That didn’t make us give up, though. And that didn’t make me any less sad- knowing that month after month brought another failure, another disappointment. I couldn’t look at someone’s new baby pictures, or read a birth announcement, or pass a baby section at a store, without feeling like I had clearly done something wrong in a past life to suffer this way. The worst feelings would come while watching trashy talk shows or the news, seeing parents take their gifts for granted by abusing them or just having them because they can’t stop partying and then using them as pawns to get what they want- I couldn’t help but think of how unfair life truly is and as a result I’ve just stopped watching daytime TV (with the exception of Judge Judy).
Now that we’re back in a better place, we’re starting the medical procedures again and hoping for better results this time, although I’m not as optimistic. Many people will say that 31 is still pretty young and that it could happen for me the minute I stop thinking about it. The problem with that is that I’ve been thinking about it for eight years now. It doesn’t just go away. Somewhere deep inside me I have faith that something good will happen for us, but I don’t get my hopes up too high these days.
I’ve found other ways to share the love that I have to give: I’m hopelessly devoted to my friends, family, Halbastram & silly little asshole cat, Humphrey T. Roosevelt. I will never stop living my life because of a little infertility but I will never stop trying either. So here’s to hoping that Little Colt Seavers graces us with his presence in 2016 (or 2017 or 2018…I can wait a lifetime).