Momlissa’s Weblog

Infertility, pregnancy and motherhood with a sense of humor (because crying isn’t an option!)

And the fun begins February 16, 2008

I had left work thinking that I could easily use my lunch hour for my first RE appointment.  Well, my lunchtime came and went and I was still sitting in the waiting room.  When the doc finally appeared she was very apologetic, however this proved to be a bad habit of hers in the months to come.

Once we were settled in her office she got right down to business.  We went over my health and sex history.  The only thing that I have ever had problems with is incredibly painful periods that come and go as they please.  She thought aloud that it may be endometriosis but they wouldn’t know anything until Hubby and I went through a battery of tests.

Hubby had to drop off a sperm sample so that we could rule him out as the cause (I knew it wasn’t going to be him because I’m always the one causing problems).  I would get a tube test to make sure my tubes were open.  Then, I was to come in on day three for blood work.  Days five through nine I’d take Clomid.  Day ten would involve more blood work.  Days twelve through twenty, I was to pee on an ovulation test until I got a positive result.  When I got a positive result, Hubby was to drop off his little soldiers at the clinic by 7:30 a.m.  His sperm would then be washed and inserted into me via an IUI.  We would repeat this process for three months or until I became pregnant.  This cycle long project was cutely called the Clomid Challenge test.

Well I hate challenges.  Why the F couldn’t I just get pregnant?????  I was feeling extremely sorry for myself (which I am very good at) as I walked to my car with my mouth hanging open like an idiot.  I immediately started crying as I dialed my husband.  He barely got out the words “how did it go?” before I started babbling about his dirty spermy that needed to be washed and my inability to do what women had been doing for ages without involving a turkey baster, which is what the IUI process sounded like. 

I needed to get back to work so that I could spend hours researching just what was going to happen to me.


I need professional help February 14, 2008

After scaring the crap out of myself by going on the net and turning into a webochondriac, I decided to seek professional help.

Over the last year or so, I had complained to my primary care doctor about having problems conceiving, or my Infertile Myrtle Disorder* (*not an actual disorder to anyone except me).  At my age I had to have been actively trying to get pregnant before fertility issues would be brought up.  I’m an impatient person, so a year seemed like forever to me (I think it seems like forever to any woman who desperately wants to have a baby).

The advice the doc gave me over that year was to relax and “just let things happen.”  After a pregnancy-free year I got a referral to my OB-GYN.

At my appointment I was given the obligatory pelvic exam.  Nothing seemed obviously wrong to the doc, such as a missing uterus or something, so she started to question me on my history.  Other than that my period was very irregular and that some months when I would use fertility test kits I would never get a positive result, there was nothing that jumped out to the doctor.

It was decided that I should take a common fertility drug called Clomid for three months or until I conceived, whichever came first.  I left the OB’s office feeling confused and sad, which is a bit worse than I usually feel when leaving the gyno, but not much.

Once I got home and talked things over with my husband, we decided that if we were going to be taking such active steps towards becoming pregnant, that we wanted a specialist to review everything.  I got a referral for an endocrinologist in my area and made an appointment for six weeks later at which time the fun REALLY began.


Getting bitter February 13, 2008

I became obsessed with searching the net for what was wrong with me.  I went onto postings that were filled with other desperate, pathetic women that I totally related to.  The standard posting of a woman who was trying to conceive or TTC as the posters cutely coined it went a little something like this:

BABYHOPE2000:  Hi girls!  Hubby and I have been TTC for one year now.  I just took my fourth pregnancy test and failed it but I really feel pregnant!  My period is four hours late and I am SO regular.  Also, I was nauseas while drinking my Bloody Mary yesterday morning and I’ve been really bitchy lately.  I’ve had crazy headaches and been completely zonked.  Do you think all the pregnancy tests could be wrong?  Thanks for any responses you send and a good sprinkling of Baby Dust to all!

 The responses would vary from “you go girl, I’m sure you’re pregnant, I have the same thing going on” to “you are a friggin’ moron.”

Around this time, friends would joyfully announce that they were pregnant.  It was especially painful when the expectant parents would laugh and say that they weren’t even trying and then “whoops!  what a happy accident.”  I had to swallow my angry, bitter response and offer my congratulations. 

After all, it wasn’t their fault that my womb was a dried up, barren desert.  It was time to get help.


Putting out

So we decided to have a baby.  I went off the pill and figured I would instantly get knocked up.  What happened was my period was longer, irregular and painful.  Close to a year went by and I was still babyless.  I decided I needed to do some research.  I went online and made some shocking discoveries.

One – you can only get pregnant two days a month.  All those horror stories I was told in high school were complete crap.  I found out that you had to chart your cycle and count twelve days back from the day you expected your next period.  That day was the day you were most likely to get pregnant.  So I’d been putting out all month, when really I only had to give it up one night.  I was a bit miffed.

Two – you are supposed to take your basal body temperature.  All you have to do is take your temp with a thermometer that reads your temp very precisely first thing in the morning before you move.  You keep track of your temp on a chart and when it spikes, you’re ovulating.  I don’t know if I’m just a freak, but when I open my eyes in the morning, the only thing on my mind is peeing and coffee.  Needless to say, I usually forgot about charting my temperature until I was two cups of coffee deep.

Three – you are advised to check your vaginal mucus.  I read that sentence and quickly skipped the paragraph.  I don’t want to know my body that well.

I decided to get serious.  Although I wasn’t willing to to keep track of my vagina’s mucus situation, there were other steps I could take.  I bought fertility tests (you pee on test strips and you get a positive when you’re ovulating) and jumped my hubby on my fertile days (and only my fertile days….he’d gotten enough free action). 

I fell into a depressing routine over the next six months.  Week one would be my period.  Week two would be spent gearing up to concieve.  I would test positive for ovulation and have sex imagining my husband’s sperm jetting into my egg (sex wasn’t about enjoyment for me anymore…it was a mission).  Weeks three and four would be spent with me feeling every symptom of pregnancy.  I would get sore breasts, nausea, exhaustion, food cravings and other random symptoms that I would then research for hours on the internet.  I would shop for baby furniture and maternity clothes, positive I was pregnant.  Then I would get my period and lock myself in my room and ball my eyes out, completely crushed. 

I felt like damaged goods.  I was barren.


I need a baby

After a long day of laying on the beach, I had an epiphany:  I need a baby.

My life is silly.  I spend my time doing everything I can to not do anything at all.  I sell the occasional house at my real estate job to keep myself from being a total loser.  I cook.  I clean.  I sleep.  I eat.  I read.  I lay on the beach.  I lay around doing nothing.  I waste my life.  The other day I caught myself getting pissed off that I had to pick up my husband’s dry cleaning because it was cutting into prime tan time.  What am I doing with myself?

Today at the beach I watched a little boy with blond hair run around chasing sea gulls.  He was so joyous in everything he did.  His belly laugh made me giggle to myself and I found myself wanting to get up off my lazy ass to help him build a sand castle or find sea glass and sea shells.  All of a sudden I was hit with the overwhelming need to create life.  I wanted to grow a baby in my body and watch him or her discover all the simple beauties that I take for granted.

After quickly slipping on my sunglasses so that the other beach bums wouldn’t assume that I was having a mental breakdown I rolled over to do some serious thinking.  I know that there are so many facets of your life that are completely and irreversibly changed once you get that plus sign on your pregnancy test.  I mean, let’s face it; unless you want to end up on 20/20, you can’t just give back a baby.  Some things I need to consider….


Self-explanatory.  If I don’t get a minimum of seven hours of uninterrupted sleep, I’m likely to be a total bitch and call in sick to work.  My friends that have kids laugh hysterically when I say this.  I can only assume that is a bad thing.

Personal Time

I think about how much I love spending an entire day lying on the beach, alternating the hours with snoozing and reading.  If I want to go to Barnes & Noble to spend three hours picking out the perfect book or decide to go on a spontaneous weekend trip, I can do it.  I’m scared of losing the freedom that a childless life allows me.  I am a lazy and selfish creature.


I can’t speak for everyone but in my opinion, there is never enough money.  Maybe you’re extremely wealthy and having a child won’t affect your piles of money, but my husband and I are not in that tax bracket.  We are always strapped for cash.  A friend’s wedding can put us out of food for a week.  I am not kidding.  When we do have extra money we spend it immediately.  Savers we are not.  We have no 401K, retirement plan or emergency fund.  We are completely irresponsible with money.  The thought of buying diapers instead of a People magazine or a car seat instead of a Coach bag is appalling to me but I’ve seen friends more superficial than I give up their frivolous spending without complaining once Junior comes along.  I like to think that I can do the same.  I am, however, very doubtful. 


I know most people wouldn’t look at irresponsibility as something you enjoy having, but think about it.  You are ultimately only responsible for yourself and anything you screw up in your life is only going to really affect you.  However, once a  baby is around and you blow your last fifty bucks on a case of beer and a pack of Marlboro Lights, you are considered a loser.  You are no longer the most important thing in your life.  To me, that is very scary.

I love my freedom but I feel like there is something missing.  I want to leave a mark on the world.  One hundred years from now my children’s children will still be here.  I can’t think of a more gratifying way to show that I was here and that I gave something important to the world.  Unless, of course, the kid ends up being the next Ted Bundy, but let’s try not to focus on that.