Can baking soda really help against infertility?
What is this photo? An antistress accessory? A horn? Some weird piping device? If you are like me a few years ago, you have no idea. Well, it’s a vaginal pear. And you can thank God you don’t know what it is. In November 2014, I got a prescription for this device from my doctor, which reads a little bit like a physics experiment “Dilute 2 table spoon of baking soda into a liter of water. Do a vaginal douche every day between the 10th and 17th day of your cycle.”
It’s seems simple enough, but it’s not. First, because I live in Kenya where nobody seemed to know what a vaginal pear is. I had to ask my mum to buy it for me in France (embarrassing, right?). She tried four or five pharmacies before she was able to order the desired device. She eventually shipped it to my mother-in law’s in the UK, where we were spending the Christmas season. I bet my in-laws must have been wondering what this giant Christmas gift was. And indeed this was probably the one “gift” I was most eager to open!
When I got it, I freaked out a little because it said “rectal pear” instead of “vaginal”, and I wondered if it wasn’t the right one. The manual indicated this was usually for people who get operated and need to clean their anal parts. How charming. I checked on line and decided that, vaginal or rectal, all “pears” look sufficiently alike. The next question I asked myself was: how on earth I was going to be able to fit this huge round thing in my vagina? It’s not exactly the shape of what usually goes in there. It was early morning. After a bit of reflection I saw the little pump and realized I didn’t have to fit the whole thing in, just the small white piece. Dumb me :)
So, from experience, a vaginal douche takes about 30 minutes. A bit obnoxious when you have to share the bathroom with your parents-in-law and brother- in-law. Richard helps me by mixing the baking soda (also called “Bicarbonate of Sodium”) the first few times, and becomes a champion at squeezing the water into the pear with the little pump. We stay in the bathroom together, I’m sitting in the bathtub, and we laugh at the situation. Another event I had never imagined going through! A week later, things are even more complicated. We are in the South of France to celebrate the new year with 12 of my school friends, sharing a single bathroom in the house of my friends’ father. Rich and I decide to take an AirBnB close by in order to be able to do the procedure. I can’t really explain why to the others. We come back from a great New Year’s Eve party, it’s 5 am, and a great “after-party” awaits us.
What’s the purpose of all this, you ask? Acidity reduction in my private parts. One month earlier, Richard and I took a “post-coital” test at the hospital: it counts how many sperms can be found around one’s uterus 12 hours after sex. In our case, results were disappointing: although sperms could be found, they were all immobile. The doctor told us this was most likely because my vaginal Ph was too acid. So here I am, doing vaginal douches to bring down the Ph.
And that’s not it. I have to cut acid foods (e.g. eggs, even though that’s how I’d been starting my day every morning as per the advice from my acupuncturist). I’m also meant to look for “Eau de Celestin”, a specific sparkling water which has a high Ph and drink two liters of it per day. A comprehensive tour of Kenyan supermarkets confirms no such brand exists in the country. Instead, I buy a bottle of each sparkling water I can find and conduct a little experiment with Ph testors (yes, the kind you use in physics class) to identify which ones have the highest Ph. None gives good results — they are all acid. So as soon as we arrive in the UK, on Christmas morning, Richard and I drive to the biggest supermarket in London to find “Eau de Celestin” water. To no avail. I finally find it in France, the day before we fly back to Nairobi. I drink so much that I have to spend the day on the loo. I feel like we’re back in the 17th century when doctors would give magic potions to drink instead of proper medical cure.
All that, and a few days later, my period. I resist sending the vaginal pear in the trash and instead get a hot chocolate, mentally preparing for another month of bizarre douches.
To the question “is baking soda useful?”, I’d say: for me it wasn’t. In addition, most doctors outside France (e.g. Kenya and the UK), say there is no evidence it works. But then there are testimonies of people who attribute their success to this unlikely tool. And more often than not, we’re ready to try anything in case it helps. If someone told me eating raw pumpkin and rabbit had worked for them, I’m sure I’d give it a try. So why not this?
