Well…shit. During my very complicated, scary-as-hell needle demonstration I pricked my finger. And beyond the slight embarrassment and sympathetic looks from the nurse, the worst part is that it still stings. I’m such a wimp.
Normally I’m ok with my wimpitude. It doesn’t really interfere with my life, but for the next 8 to God knows how many days I’m going to be stabbing myself with that very same bastard twice a day. Well not the exact same one, they were very clear on that. We don’t reuse needles Shani.
No shit sherlock.
If you’re wondering why I will be needing to stab myself bi-daily with the world’s tinniest sharpest sword, don’t worry, I’ll tell you.
About two years ago, pretty much the morning after my wedding to bar none the most wonderful man in the world (and no, I’m not biased, I just speak truth) the biological imperative to procreate struck me. In laymen’s terms, I got baby fever.
Now, I’ve always loved kids. I have 13 nieces and nephews between the ages of 0 and 10, I live within a mile of 11 of them and they are the most important things in my life. I’ve always known I wanted a brood. But like a good rational girl I waited. I was careful about protection in college and when I got married I knew I wanted to wait at least a year before considering it. Good thing I did too, because 18 long and torturous months later, I walked out on that marriage. And then I waited again. Finally, several years later, I was married once more. And this time I had it right. As convinced as I was that this would be the father of my children, we knew that the right thing to do was to wait. Ten months was what Mr. Right and I had agreed on. So I waited.
Finally it came time to yank that IUD out of my uterus and make me some babies! US. I mean make US some babies.
But month after month my annoying loudmouthed Aunt Period came to town.
‘It takes time, don’t rush it’ ‘Don’t think about it’ ‘You just have to relax and have a good time’
All advice I was given that my brain couldn’t help but ignore. By the eighth baby-less month I had had enough. What if there was something wrong?
This is not something any woman (no man either, I would imagine) ever wants to think about. We all just live our lives being terrified of getting pregnant when we don’t want to, blessing the sight of blood a couple weeks after that potentially ill-advised night. But here I was, hundreds of unprotected interactions later, and the one thing I wanted just wasn’t happening.
The standard medical advice for women under 30 (for which I qualify — for now) is to try for at least a year before even thinking something may be wrong. Boy am I glad I ignored that. It takes longer than you’d think to get yourself fully tested. And longer than that until they can artificially put a baby in you.
We were lucky. Within the first couple of weeks they were able to tell us that it would take a bloody miracle for us to get pregnant on our own. And so, here I am. Sitting in front of a table laid out with needles, syringes, vials, alcohol swabs, and plastic doohickies I have no idea what they do. And I’m supposed to stab myself twice a day starting tomorrow.
And my finger still stings.
