Who knew nine little words would be so volcanic? I mean, it's not like I went all Dooce on you or something. I posted a link that you didn't have to click on. And if you did, you didn't have to read it. And if you did, I hope you learned something. Because learning is fun. It makes your hair grow.
Anyway, on to... I'd say lighter topics, but I'd be lying. I'm here to talk about infertility. That's right. If I was Dooce, I'd use this opportunity to make some joke about mormons and my vagina. But you see, while I have a sense of comedic timing, I can rarely think of a joke. Some people have all the luck.
We have been trying to get pregnant for a little over a year, to no avail. And, being one who doesn't like to be "bad" at anything, we went to the doctor on Tuesday in an effort to improve our A-game, so to speak. I'd really like to move on from the "trying" phase to the "succeeding" phase. Sex is no longer fun when it feels like your second job.
Upon our arrival, I find out that our insurance company won't cover any infertility treatment, because they don't give a damn if I get pregnant. They will cover diagnostics, with a pre-approval, which they may or may not grant, which is at least something, but we're on our own if we decide to pursue anything further. That wasn't really the news I was hoping for, but it's what I got, none the less.
The doctor told us about the available options and I go in on Monday for a Day 21 Progesterone test, to see if I'm ovulating and they gave us a sterile cup to bring home for Brian's semen analysis. After that is done, I'm supposed to do an over the counter ovulation test, to figure out my "fertile window." And after all that, I'm supposed to have a Hysterosalpinogram, which I've heard is pretty painful and unpleasant.
And then... well, I guess we'll see. It's really hard for me to think about all this. Having a baby is just something that I'm supposed to be able to do. I feel broken. Or like a failure or something. And Brian isn't particularly sympathetic, not because he's a bastard, but because he just doesn't understand. He can't. His uterus isn't screaming at him to reproduce the way I feel mine is sometimes. I can't even watch Calliou anymore without getting weepy. And then I feel like an idiot.
I look around me, at all these people who have children they pay little attention to, or treat poorly and I wonder why they get to have kids and I don't. I'd be a good mom, if someone would just let me have the chance.