Get pregnant or die trying

Well, not quite literally, but closer than one might want. Before I tell that story I’m going to go back a few steps. I would like to give you a sense of how my ride on the infertility coaster began. Then, I shall do the responsible blogger thing of going into more detail with additional entries.

First off, I should say “our” journey since J² has been just a little bit involved. Imagine that, my husband is part of this. Wait, what? J²? Yep, that’s my hubby. I coined that to be his nickname when someone jokingly called him it. It suits him well, being a combination of his name and because he is a huge math nerd. He is a wonderful man and throughout this blog I really hope to convey this. We were married in 2003. We both wanted to start a family and decided to let nature take its course. Very much cliché, but accurate. And everything work out perfectly because love, right?

Not so much. For a nice long 7 years (due to a combination of me being an anxious baby and we weren’t in a hurry) we waited. And waited. And waited. And – I’m late! Nope. BFN. And waited. So we hit the what is called the 7 year itch. Although, in our household, it was more like the 7 year “what the hell is happening?” I started experiencing physical issues along with emotional irritability. I would get angry fast and stay angry. Silent treatment, anyone? This was damaging not only me, but J² as well. The stupidest things made me mad. J² was confused because he didn’t understand and I wasn’t communicating. Everything was going wrong and I could only blame myself. I didn’t like that I saw myself hurting my husband. He still tried though. How does he love me that much? Are you screaming at me, yet? I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I hesitating in seeking treatment, which will always be a huge regret in my life.

Finally, I made an appointment to see a lovely nurse practitioner, Gundy. She listened to my issues (well, the ones relevant to the situation) and led me through her plan to try and help me. She run some blood work. By the way, this was the first time I had blood drawn besides the finger prick. Shout out to the awesome phlebotomist; didn’t feel a thing. Those were the good old days. Now, I’m pretty sure the doctors just have my blood on tap. The results suggested that I had something called PCOS. Or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It contributes to infertility. I’ll break that down late. Essentially, my hormones were all out of whack, totally the technically term(ha! Alliteration), and my body was not ovulating. So I was prescribed Metformin to help regulate those hormones. I guess biology dictates that one must ovulate in order to get pregnant. So nature and biology are pretty much sworn enemies. To digress for a moment – stairs are my arch nemesis. Look how much we’re learning. Continuing…

After taking Metformin for awhile, Gundy prescribed Clomid. Clomid’s been known to help simulate follicle growth and ovulation. It didn’t work. I can’t necessarily blame the drug because I mainly ran into a common problem: OB/GYNs are not specialized to deal with all the nuances of getting a women pregnant. J² and I made an appointment to see an RE at a fertility clinic. RE stands for Reproductive Endocrinologist. And they get all up in there. I’m convinced that people abducted by aliens go through less probing. And so our baby making process got a lot less intimate and added more people.

I write this blog now as J² and I start a new phase; we have decided to move forward with IVF. A big, scary step that because everything is moving rather quickly I haven’t had the proper time to freak the fuck out. Stay tuned for that. It should be fun.