The Land of the Reproductively Challenged

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do any of this.

After about 15 months of attempted baby-making, it’s becoming pretty clear– I am “infertile.” Which sounds so weirdly permanent, doesn’t it? Like at some point, I crossed that line from the land of happy, cheery couples with chubby babies-in-waiting to the vast wasteland of the childless. It’s like the zombie apocalypse of reproduction. I was once human, and now I am one of the undead, the reproductively challenged.

In. Fertile.

So technically, I haven’t gotten a diagnosis yet. Technically. In fact, all my other tests so far have come out just fine. Blood tests all came back normal. Ultrasounds say that my uterus and ovaries are in fine working order. I’m ovulating like a mofo every month, and having appropriately scheduled sexy time. My doctor thinks I may have had a cyst, but that appears to have cleared up. And yet… no baby.

Next week, I’m going in for an HSG. A hysterosalpingogram. (Because that is a word normal human beings can pronounce.) If I’ve got this right, I’m going to dye injected up in my lady bits to see if there are any obstructions. Is it just me, or is this like the exact opposite of a good time?

Also, I have mixed feelings about my doc. On one hand, he is absurdly smart– he retired last year as the head of Obstetrics at a big fancy hospital in my city. He isn’t annoyed or taken aback that I regularly consult Dr. Google before I talk to him. I also like that he isn’t emotional about this. Just really matter-of-fact with me. I have more than enough emotions for the both of us, thank you. I want my medical professional to be professional. But at the same time, he is a bit clinical. (Yes, I am contradicting myself. Deal.)

Okay, so I sorta lied when I said everything was “fine” with my parts. After months of painful everything, my flakey PCP referred me to my new doc.  After some poking around and all those aforementioned tests, he says I may have mild endometriosis, but he can’t know for sure. (Which grosses me out in ways I cannot express. For real, it sounds like some terrible B movie: “Cells from your womb grow out of control until the take over your ENTIRE BODY!!!”) Because I have read every WebMD article every created on the subject, this freaked me the f@ck out. This is happening to ME, remember? Not abstractly in some Redbook article. Me. My body.

My doc didn’t seem too worried. He said “We have two options. I can either put you on birth control, or you can get pregnant. So let’s work on getting you pregnant.” See what I mean? There is something reassuring about someone who can lay out a plan of action like that. No promises, sure. But I feel like at least I have a plan.

Which is why I’m getting that HSG test. Because I’m going to get me babied.



  1. bionic · January 15, 2014

    I prefer “subfertile,” myself. More plausible room for improvement. Or something.

    Also, hi! I feel dumb that it took me so long to check up on who this mysterious new follower of my blog was. I am glad you are here. Or, I’m not, but I’m glad that if you are here, you are wr

  2. bionic · January 15, 2014

    …Writing about it. Damn ipad and its premature posting. I think the writing helps, I really do.

    The thing that really helps, though, is getting knocked up, which I am confident you will. I can hardly wait.

    • thecommonostrich · January 20, 2014

      Thanks, doll face. I have found that writing about it helps. There is something miraculously cathartic about it. Much better than alternative, which seems to be silently festering until I find myself crying at pet food commercials.

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