Sample #2: Infertility Sucks


When one suffers fertility issues, one’s reproductive organs and menstrual cycle become frequent topics of conversation. A woman undergoing treatment tends to get mighty comfortable discussing intimate details as if she’s talking about the weather. Hence, why I can write about drinking a laxative and body fluids all day long.

You even grow accustomed to the look. Ladies, you know what I mean. The leer that screams, “so, you’re having sex, like, all the time, right? Did you just have sex? Are you gonna have sex later?”

Sex, sex, sex…

Yep, you do. Sex becomes a full-time job. Temperatures are taken. Fluids are analyzed. It’s all very regulated and tedious.

I have to thank The Mummy for helping us get through this period in our quest to have a child. Not the shitty reboot. The fun and snappy 1999 version. Here’s why. When Frankie and I moved in together, we were the level of poor where we counted change to buy food. We ate struggle sandwiches and paid every bill late. Cable was for fancy folks. Our one splurge was internet. Providers used to give incentive gifts to attract customers. So, we shelled out the $20 a month and got a free DVD player when we signed up for service.

Here’s where The Mummy comes in.

During our cable blackout period, we re-watched The Mummy at least a gazillion times. When trying to conceive, we resorted to our old favorite. Although at that point we had cable, it was only hooked up to the living room television. We kept our snazzy free DVD player in the bedroom. After sex, we’d put on The Mummy. I’d lay at the head of the bed with my legs up against the wall. Frankie reclined beside me while we watched the movie, with me practically upside down.

We figured this gave gravity a helping hand in pulling the sperm toward any waiting eggs.

I’m dead serious about this—and well aware of the ridiculousness of the situation.

But, we’re not alone. I’ve talked to a ton of women who did this same thing—minus The Mummy—in their desperation to get pregnant.

This method, as expected, didn’t work.

Doctor A, at a loss, referred us to Dr. W, who was an endometriosis specialist.

This exam was as fun as a splinter in your eye, and as dignified as getting a pap smear in the middle of Times Square. During the Christmas rush. With the procedure projected on the Jumbotron.

 

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Coming June 5, 2018


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At twenty-one, I was diagnosed with infertility. It took a decade to prove the doctors wrong.

I was nineteen when my first ovarian cyst burst. Two years later, I was told I’d never have children. After nearly a decade of being dismissed as a hypochondriac, I was diagnosed with endometriosis, chronic ovarian cysts, a diseased Fallopian tube, and uterine polyps. My reproductive organs were a mess, and I was in constant pain.

Too stubborn to give up, I became a woman on a mission.

Three surgeries and two cycles of in vitro fertilization later, we had our first daughter. A quickie while she was at school gave us our second.

Infertility Sucks is an honest peek into how I dealt with infertility, IVF, and the depression that followed.


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Renee RoccoComment