The Little Uterus That Could

I’m infertile. Well, not totally. If I had to guess, I would say only about 80 percent of my uterus is full of cobwebs and sulfuric acid. It’s that 20 percent of my uterus that I assume I have left, that I have been trying to sweet talk for the past two years. My husband and I did get pregnant once, but it quickly evacuated the premises due to what I can only imagine were unsatisfactory living conditions. The fact that I was pregnant once,sustains what I would call my mild optimism.
They say humor can heal you, and that laughter is the best medicine, so I thought I would try it regarding this situation since I’ve become open to all sorts of new treatments lately. I also know that if I can make someone else laugh about the insanity and darkness involved in this matter, I will be mildly pleased.
Here are the things that have really irritated me about the whole mess of fertility.

1. I should have started a savings account for the amount of money I have spent on pregnancy and ovulation tests. Oh, sure…it started out innocently enough, most things with me do. I would wait to test till my missed period, then I started testing just a few days earlier than that. Then the companies came out with the “Gold” tests that would tell you a week before your missed period, and that’s when things went dark. I am guilty of testing 2 days after intercourse, taking multiple tests in one day, testing even after my period started ("it could be implantation spotting Carl!") and hiding unused tests from my husband in various places, for repetitive, covert testing later. I wouldn’t have to hide them, if my husband hadn’t approached me with a pregnancy test intervention. I can quit anytime I want, and he shouldn’t be going through my underwear drawer anyway.
2. Faint postive vs. evaporation lines-some of you know what I mean. I know that disassembling a pregnancy test and examining the strip with a magnifying glass and an exposed lightbulb is neither reasonable nor sanitary. But let’s be honest, nothing about making babies is reasonable or sanitary to begin with.
3. Teenagers will get pregnant. Teenagers will get pregnant after having sex for the first time. Teenagers will get pregnant, on prom night, in the back of a rented limo. Teenagers will get pregnant and for 9 months will think they are just getting fat, and then have a baby one day, as easy as if they went to the grocery store and decided to pick up a few things,tampons,some cream of chicken soup, and a baby. I’m so over teenagers and their shiny eggs and sparkly uteruses.
4. For the infertile, sex has become a science. Now before anyone gets riled up and says…”You have to make it fun…it’s the act of love….enjoy it..” or my favorite “What a fun thing to have to do” here’s what I have to say. You imagine having to have sex for 7-10 days straight each month, regardless of illness, house guests, or employment, in the same position, and at the end for the next 20 minutes you're not allowed to move, go to the bathroom,sit up, or have a sandwich, and tell me that’s not a chore. “You have to keep it exciting.” Really? Do we? Let me tell you, there’s only so much role playing and inappropriate verbal exchanges you can engage in before things get weird. Trust me.
5. “Just relax…when you stop thinking about it, it will happen” I realize this is said in kindness and probably because nobody knows what else to say. “Sorry you're having trouble performing a basic element of the human experience,” isn’t really an option to say for most people. Not thinking about the inability to procreate isn’t quite like trying not think about the approach of tax season. I’m sure that for some people who have been trying for several months and haven’t conceived, taking a time out makes sense. But we’re on our 25th month of this insanity…I don’t have time to take a vacation from my hostile uterus. My clock isn’t ticking, it’s a ticking timebomb, and I need to McGuyver a baby out of there before it explodes.
6. My most irritating realization?(Disclaimer: Sorry to any appalled or embarrassed family members) I could have started having sex a LONG time ago. On my own volition, I couldn’t even think about, draw, say, or much less look at a penis until I was married. I grew up with such a well planned, realistic, information overloaded campaign about sex and the repercussions (my mother is a counselor/teacher for pregnant teens) that I fiercely prevented pregnancy and virulent strains of STDs by avoiding co-ed swimming pools, dry humping, and men until somewhere around my 25th birthday.

With all of this, I have resolved not to be bitter. Because bitter is just another word for sad. If I were to become bitter, I would have to avoid certain situations and places where I saw certain kinds of parents with their young children. I would be reminded of what a travesty it was that they were allowed to procreate, and I can’t. And if I avoided those places, I would miss out on so many of the things I have come to cherish. I would have to say goodbye to 3 a.m. trips to Walmart on a school night, Rock concerts, R-rated movies, the Mall in the middle of a school day afternoon, the small and concealable weapons section of the Army Navy Surplus store, the firing range, and the large reptile section at Petsmart, and I’m just not ready to give those up.

One for the History Books

Well, the chill in the air is gone, and the freak ice and snowstorms have passed, and now I’m bored again, so I’m back to writing. I’ve been bad. Very bad. I have had all of these thoughts rolling around in my head, but just too lazy to get it out. Laziness. That’s really the only excuse, but I’m very good at being so lazy, so it’s legitimate. I meant to write of my holiday travels and travails, but frankly, it was all relatively functional, and dare I say…enjoyable? Of course, it’s not hard to receive a passing grade in my book. Consider some of my past holiday seasons.

I remember one Christmas where we pushed my Dad too far. We went hunting for our Christmas tree a little late that year, and as my father was squeezing our hurried purchase through the six inches of space between my brother and I, we responded, moved by the holiday spirit, in typical teenage fashion with something like “this tree blows Dad…” or “you’re lame.”    

He got that crazed look in his eye, and 10 minutes later, after having laid down the pedal, rubber thoroughly burnt, and frantic traffic dodging in silence through parking lots of one big box hardware store to the next when my father finally stopped and marched into Home Depot. My brother and I found ourselves in a predicament where what happened next was a blur. What I remember is that when it was all said and done, my family rode home in silence, my brother and I hunched over, necks painfully angled, perched atop two separate Christmas trees.  Our Christmas cup, had runneth over, and we kept our mouths shut.

Then of course, there was the one year, very long ago, when my brother was still a toddler. It was the 80’s. Marriage was hard, and the only thing worse than tax season in the 1980's, was trying to make the holiday “perfect” when things were less than. My parents had bought a beautiful tree, (honestly). The Christmas carols were going, the house smelled of roasted meat, and earlier that week, we had visited a new church and were feeling what I can only describe as a healthy dose of the magic of the season.

We were gathered around our tree, twinkling and bright, with a choir of angels on the Hi-Fi. For those 30 seconds, all was right and good. But in the blink of Santa’s eye, disaster fell.

What I remember plays out in my head, in slow motion, to the music from Apocalypse Now. My father, beaming, turned to light the fire…struck a match… and an ember flew. We all turned our heads the same direction, tracking the spark…willing it to fall short. It did not. It landed like calculatingly evil snow on our perfect tree, and was still. Then flash…the fire and smoke spread up the tree and for some reason, the outside of the fireplace, like water.

My parents made horrified eye contact, and simultaneously jumped into action, while my brother and I probably jumped up and down, wide-eyed and clapping, as if we thought this carnage was part of the show. My father ran outside, and for some reason got on the roof? (I’m still not clear why on this one) He fed a water hose down the chimney to my mother, turned it on full force, and let it rip. The tree was put out first, and mostly saved with only the back half of the tree left smoking. My parents continued to work on the fire that had breached the perimeter of the chimney and fireplace. As my parents were screaming directions and orders back and forth, the doorbell rang.

I ran, and as I opened the door, a cloud of soot and the smell of burned Christmas wafted past me. When the cloud cleared, I was shocked. Do you remember the part about my family visiting the new Methodist church a week earlier? Here, in front of my ash-stained, goofy grinning face, was the carol singing, cookie carrying, welcoming committee Pastor and wife, of First United Methodist. In a thrilling turn of events, they were also fully costumed and fully committed to their roles as characters from the works of Charles Dickens. I can only imagine what they saw behind me, as they turned away, mumbling within my earshot, what sounded like “This is why we should call first…” 

So…this Christmas and holiday season, seeing as it was fire free and light on the verbal attacks, got much more than just a passing grade.