When getting pregnant is not so easy and the toll it takes on a marriage
With my daughter, my husband and I were like; hmm…it would be great to get pregnant and literally nine months later, without even really trying, we got pregnant. With my son, it was a completely different experience. At the time, like many other women, I just assumed that as an early thirties mom, as soon as my husband and I started “trying” to get pregnant, we’d be blessed with another little fetus.
Suffice it to say, we spent months trying, very much like Halle Berry’s admission that she kept her negative pregnancy test result sticks in a drawer, I too would hold onto those urine sticks, in the hopes that perhaps the s that second blue line might magically appear.
I remember feeling a profound cocktail of emotions; sadness, anger, jealousy, bitterness, resentment, and having to come to terms with what I felt were my failure as a woman.
After seven unsuccessful months of my our attempts to conceive the “natural way” we even tried every position listed in the Kama Sutra, I loaded up on fertile foods, spent hours post coital with my legs resting over my head…anything to get those his little swimmers where they needed to go.
Finally, we admitted defeat, and began our long journey into the world of infertility and reproductive medicine.
Being told I was too young to do anything invasive, I was put on the popular fertility drug Clomid and was told by my Dr. to do my best to limit my stress, and desperately stop worrying… which of course is the ultimate Catch-22—How do you keep from being worried about getting pregnant, when the stress of trying and continually failing is making you miserable and even more stressed out?
I spent months sitting with other women in the infertility office, commiserating as we told each other, perfect strangers, our stories in the hopes of finding a kindred spirit in one another. Those countless 5:30 am blood tests, sonograms, hopeful inseminations—which my husband and I unluckily endured twice— which were slightly uncomfortable for my husband who was forced to empty his specimen into a cup- which we then covered in blankets to jeep it warm and vital- and sped over to the Dr.’s office filled with the hope that this would be the day we’d make a baby.
Suffice it to say- our marriage was faltering under the extreme pressure to conceive- it became my singular mission, and each month when my period came, the reality of having to endure another months’ battery of blood test and trying were often more than I could bear.
My doctor was finally ready to get a little more aggressive; we did a round of injections, tons of sonograms, blood tests, an insemination and on a sunny June morning my home pregnancy test revealed two blue lines—and we were ecstatic.
As if we didn’t feel blessed enough, the sonogram revealed two little heartbeats—which my Dr. had mentioned is a likelihood with fertility medications—and it seemed as though our hearts couldn’t possibly stand any more joy or they might very well burst.
Unfortunately, our journey didn’t end there- we didn’t sail off into the sunset with our twins and older daughter. My husband and I were both ecstatic, shocked and ran through all the emotions that couples mull over when they find out they’re going to deliver twins. Unfortunately at 11 weeks, I miscarried one of the fetuses, but thankfully, I was able to carry the remaining one to term, who has become my little Jackson.
And here we are seven years later, and I wonder if I could endure it all again…just one more time.