Getting pregnant naturally is like the Easter egg hunts I remember as a child: The millions of sperm are just like the millions of unruly kids. Everybody’s pushing everybody else out of the way vying for that one shiny egg.
(If you’ve been confused about what ICSI is: ICSI is that annoying parent who steps in to help push because they think that they’re 12 year old is too incompetent to get to the egg on their own.)
Valentine’s Day is the perfect holiday for people trying to conceive. I know you think I’m about to go into the importance of rekindling our romance. Yeah yeah… I’ll get to that in a minute. But first and foremost:
So you think you dread the holidays this year because you’re dealing with infertility? How about before you were dealing with infertility? I truly believe that many many people- those with normally functioning reproductive systems included- either dread or at least would rather not go to these family soirees and there’s one main reason: Expectations: Either we fear that our holiday gatherings won’t live up to what we expect. Or, even worse: They will.
“My Co-Workers are like Family”
Why do people think that’s a good thing? So you’re telling me that you get on each other’s nerves, push each other’s buttons, talk behind each other’s backs, and hold eternal grudges?
Mercifully, most of our extended real family, the ones with whom we spend holidays, are people we don’t see that often. So whatever idiocies are said at the big family gathering.:
“I really think you should start having children. You’re not getting any younger.”
Or our response:
“I really think you should stop talking. You’re not getting any smarter.”
…are said and then we all get into our respective cars, gripe to anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped in the vehicle with us for the long & getting-longer-by-the-minute-ride-home, or a BFF on the other end of the hands-free. Then we rehash the emotional leftovers in our minds and to our spouses for the next 12 months. It’s different after the company holiday event.
People love to say that history repeats itself. I don’t love to say it, but I’m living proof. (In about 3 minutes, you’ll find out why I’ve lately grown to hate the word “proof”‘s guts.) I went through my own infertility adventure a while ago. Suddenly I find myself going through it again… without really going through it.
“If Walmart had a fertility clinic” I admit. There are several disturbing elements in that title. I will calm some of your fears right here by saying this post won’t have much to do with the ongoing fashion show at Walmart. You don’t need me. You have your own eyes and YouTube for that. Although, I do think the mentality when we’re getting dressed to go to a fertility clinic is similar as to when we’re going to Walmart:
“Who cares what I wear to Walmart? At least half of the shoppers will look worse.”
“Who cares what I wear to the fertility clinic? Ten minutes into the visit, I’ll be in a backless couture hospital gown with my ass hanging out.”
So, dressing for infertility or Walmart success notwithstanding– Walmart has eye centers. So why not fertility centers? The best part would be that they could run them just like they run their seasonal items. In and out. No delays. Fast and furious. Bathing suits are gone in June. School supplies are done in July and on to the Halloween candy because you know everyone wants to get a jump on their Halloween candy buying. I’m sure that August bag of candy is just laying around the house unopened waiting for October. (I wonder how many people actually finish the candy on the way home and turn around and head back to the store. I mean, it’s August. You can’t take a chance on it melting in the trunk.)
Well, why not a fertility clinic at Walmart? In and out. No delays. Fast and furious. No waiting ten days for your first consultation. No waiting until next month to try the next procedure. No two week wait to find out if you’re pregnant. Here’s the schedule at Walmart’s Minute Fertility Clinic:
Monday 8am: First and only appointment. You say “hi” to Dr. Total Stranger and tell her everything you can think of about your menstrual cycle and your sex life, editing out only the parts about the whipped cream and the crack in the windshield. While you’re chatting, a nurse takes blood out of your arm and sperm out of your spouse and then tosses away her latex gloves and goes to lunch. You then proceed onto the examination table behind the curtain. The doctor directs you to open up and say “aaah”. You ask how everything looks. You probe her mind. She probes everything on that diagram in sixth grade Health class. You swallow a handful of fertility drugs that your spouse picked up at the pharmacy while you’re on the table as the doctor stares at your ovaries to see if the pills have taken effect. She decides you need IUI. She uses something from Housewares to shoot your spouse’s sperm up north. You leave the Minute Fertility Clinic, go to Subway next door and have a sandwich then return to the clinic. If you’re still not pregnant, the doctor does an egg retrieval, sprinkles in some of the spouse’s sperm for IVF and then sends the combo into your uterus. Now is the hard part: The 2hw: The two hour wait. You get a flu shot. You go into the pharmacy area, kick off your shoes and stand on Dr. Scholl’s machine. You peruse the trial size aisle. You could take your blood pressure if Walmart hadn’t replaced the machine with a garbage can last year. (A simple matter of priorities.) You buy some non-perishable comfort food and return to the clinic. Success! You’re pregnant! You’ll return next week to buy maternity clothes, pick up your “It’s a boy/girl!” cake at the bakery, and stop in at the Walmart Ob/Gyn to deliver the baby on your way out.
Hey…Thanks so much for stopping by! I hope you had a few laughs while you were here. If you’d like more laughs at infertility’s expense, please sign on to my newsletter http://laughingisconceivable.com (top) and check out my little book: Laughing IS Conceivable: One Woman’s Extremely Funny Peek into the Extremely Unfunny World of Infertility. (It’s been downloaded by 1000s & is recommended by top fertility professionals around the U.S.) Available on all Amazons, Nook, & Kobo & in Spanish as La Risa ES Concebible. https://www.amazon.com//dp/B007G9X19A/
Here we are in the throes of the Halloween season. (Of course if you consult your local supermart, the Halloween season started August 29th.)
So now everyone gather in a circle, turn off the lights, get those smoke machines going, and light those flashlights under those chins… And let the infertility horror stories begin. (Not those kind of infertility horror stories, I promise. Who needs more of that?)
Read on… if you daaaaare.
Every year at this time, it is a tradition to re-post this. 50% nostalgic tradition. 50% lazy tradition. But a tradition nonetheless. Hope you enjoy it! xo
I’ve never hidden the fact that I love the autumn and every corny thing associated with it: Football (not the least bit corny), Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (cool with many corny parts), fall foliage.
So in the past, I’ve written about going through infertility later in life (“The Autumn of My Fertility”) and spooky infertility stories for Halloween.
I can’t see what could possibly be left to write about that’s autumn-related except, of course the obvious: Charlie Brown. Continue reading
Infertility: When a roll in the hay becomes a hayride. I hope you’re not nearly as sick of my autumn analogies yet as I am. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ll admit I get carried away for some reason at this time of year. I get sucked into every delicious piece of snacky crap on the shelf just because it´s added “pumpkin spice” or “spooky” to its normal name. When most people are overcome by addiction, they see red. I see orange. I’m hoping I’ll be able to squelch my latest urge: To trick-or-treat this year dressed as Dorothy. Nobody wants to see a woman my age in gingham unless she’s swinging her partner round and round in a barn. Speaking of hay… and infertility… Continue reading
Corn mazes: They’re one of my favorite parts of Fall. Even though most of them feel a tad gyppy rip-offish and my husband Lloyd and I are notoriously horrible at them. It’s our annual tradition. The sweet smell of corn. The sweet sound of wives yelling at the back of their husbands’ heads: “Will you wave the damn flag already and get us out of here?!” Every year we go to the same corn maze. It’s carved out the same way. We get lost in all the same places. Last year, there had been a lot of storms. The maze was so depleted, I was towering over the stalks. And as you can imagine, at 5’2 1/4″, I don’t get that many towering opportunities. Regardless, it still took us a good hour and a half to navigate our way out. Sure, we could see the exit clearly. We just couldn’t figure out how to get there without intervention- divine or otherwise… Hm… Sounds familiar… Continue reading