IVF This Noise

IVF This Noise
Jul 27, 2017 · 4 min read

So all of this IVF nonsense became really real today. I mean, yesterday I paid $3000 to our fertility clinic and that kinda hurt: the card machine was taking its sweet time and I just sat there staring at the “Processing…” on its little screen hoping to God it wouldn’t be rejected and also kind of hoping it would be because holy FUCKING SHIT, this is all getting expensive. But today…today was when I paid for all the things I will spend the coming weeks and months injecting myself with. Another $2000+ dollars. I have been using those emojis up there way more than I like in my texts lately.

I am not looking forward to injections. I used to have to give the fat cat insulin but he lost weight and doesn’t need it anymore so I feel sure that if I can stab a uncooperative pet with a needle twice daily then I can do the same to the fleshy bits below my navel on the same frequency. And I live with a physician husband who used to be a medic who hazed me (lovingly) early in our relationship by making me give him IVs. He gushed about my ability to find veins. I’m sure I made a joke behind cat-that-ate-the-canary eyes that made me sound sexy and dangerous at the same time. “Something something you think I’m good with these veins…something something innuendo…”

But you know I never did drugs; I have never even smoked pot. The highest I ever have been was from just breathing at a Phish concert (after which I raced home to make myself Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in an absolute frenzy). I graduated high school having never even been offered anything illegal…not counting the compulsory underage drinking or the odd bummed clove cigarette; that shit doesn’t count. I mean, I had a friend who used Ecstasy recreationally back before they named it Molly, but she never offered it to me. Probably because once she took too much in one go and then swore off everything completely and stopped talking to that guy at the record store she got it from. And to be fair, when she did that, me and this other friend had to hide her fucked up ass from her mom for like a day and a half until that stuff wore off. That was fun.

Not that I would have done drugs anyway. I was a Good Girl being a Good Example. Brother and sister looking up to me. Model Daughter. Good Student. My drug of choice was the Internet. Oh, and food. Always food.

So now, next week, I get to start stabbing myself in the belly with two different drugs in two separate needles, one of which, I have been warned, stings like a sonofabitch. Then later in the month, should we get pregnant, I have to give myself different injections in the muscle of my hip every day for ten weeks. Ten. Goddamn. Weeks. “Progesterone in Oil” to keep me pregnant. My nurse told me—FUN FACT—it’s actually sesame oil so “don’t put it in the fridge, like, ever.” Me, I’m sitting across from her wondering if I will start to smell like that sesame salad dressing from Wendy’s.

She said no.

Why did we wait? Life was happening and we didn’t really slow down. I mean, I swear to God, I looked up and realized I was over 35 and didn’t even remember how that happened. And we’ve been mostly wildly happy for nearly 15 years, growing up together, changing careers, moving house, drinking wine, traveling the world. We didn’t need a baby; maybe we thought they were a nice idea but we were never really bored enough to focus on them. Having Babies didn’t really become a thing until it Seemed Like A Good Time.

When it didn’t come easily, trying to get pregnant became a blow to my ego. I look back at how I’ve been in the last five or six years of my life and that’s what it is, really. I’ve had enough psychology training to know what’s up. The sheer fact that I couldn’t will myself to be good at this like just about everything else I do in my life and career, it galled me. It hurt at a level I couldn’t name, though it seems that all women who have gone through struggles with fertility know the feeling, regardless of whether they can articulate it. So here’s my shout out for you ladies (and gents or, since this is 2017, hopeful biological and/or medical parents) who might be reading this:

You’re not alone. This fucking sucks. You have a right to be angry and frustrated. Anyone who talks at you about this shit like they know all about you and your life and how you should feel when they don’t have any fucking experience with it can GTFO. STFU. ETC.

And so here we are, my Doctor and me. Going through this ordeal together, just like that couple from the intro to Idiocracy. I hope we have a better outcome, however, and I hope you’ll stay tuned.

IVF This Noise

Written by

Dealing with “unexplained infertility” and IVF; using colorful language and semi-colons. This isn’t a “journey.” It’s running the fucking gauntlet.

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