There's a Robber in the House

Infertility and it's accompanying treatments rob us of privacy, spontaneity, and much of the joy that goes along with trying to have a child.

Privacy is obvious ... there are three (or more) people in the bedroom. In the beginning, that Third Wheel may be a book, as you casually consult the chapter on properly timed sex for maximum fertility. As you continue to try, and fail, that Third becomes some ovulation predictor sticks. Not a crazy intrusion, but you have to pay attention to it and it influences your relationship in it's own way. The Third morphs into a computerized fertility monitor, and you report to it with daily diligence, waiting for the little black egg (or "the olive" as we call it) to pop up and instruct your sexual life.

The Third eventually turns into a human being, and you've opened yourself up to instruction, criticism, analysis, physical examination and more. It may be your regular OB/GYN, who will probably brush you up on the finer points of ovulation and baby-making, but if you've followed those first steps, you're pretty well versed. The Third magically becomes a specialist, and now there is a whole crew of doctors, nurses, and office staff in bed with you and the man.

It's at this point that privacy is thrown right out the window. Your early optimism maintains the excitement for your visits and treatments. A few pills and instructions on when to have sex don't seem that bad. You finally get to the point where you feel like you need The Third's permission to have sex. He tells you when, where, how. Eventually, sex isn't even involved in the baby-making process, just drugs, catheters, surgeries, and stirrups.

You're planning your wardrobe according to office visits (a skirt and slip-on shoes makes the whole process so much simpler), and The Third has become an integral part of your closet, your career, your marriage, and your entire life.

We totally renovated our house a few years ago, and were crazy enough to live here while construction was going on. During that year, I felt like the architect, the contractor, the carpenters, and the rest of the subs were a part of my family. At any given time - I could be tromping down the hall to the shower, or making my way to work - there they were. They overheard our private conversations, and were privey to our comings and goings. They were in my life all the time, and I've come to feel pretty similar (but in a more, ahhmm, private, way) about my RE.

Spontaneity has left the building, along with it's good friend Privacy. Baby-making sex is on a schedule, and at certain times, even just-for-fun sex must be regulated. You want to go on a vacation, or for a quick weekend getaway? Well, let me check. I may be ovulating and have to go in for the IUI at a day's notice. Friends call and want to meet out at local bar for a night of debauchery? Sorry, no can do ... gonadatropins are my cocktail of choice these days. Folks invite you over for an impromptu dinner party? Well, my RSVP is contingent on whether I know you well enough to keep my big old syringe of PIO in your fridge without too many questions.

For as long as I've been even contemplating the idea of having kids, I've thought about being able to surprise J with the happy news. We would be hoping it would happen eventually, but never really knowing how or when. Maybe I would do a test, find out about a pregnancy, and maybe even keep the secret to myself for a few days (or a few hours). I'd pick a time and place that he wouldn't expect. He'd be so taken by surprise, he'd be speechless. We would keep our little secret just to ourselves for a few weeks or months, and be able to shock our family and friends, who wouldn't have even realized we were trying.

Those scenarios haven't been in my head for so, so, long. Instead, we both spent a paranoid, uptight day, waiting for the magic phone call. We weren't joyous, we were short with each other, we made a contingency plan for what we would do if it was negative (note: it involved the hot tub neither of us have used for the better part of a year, and a refrigerator full of beer).

We waited for the message that I'd asked the nurse to leave on my cell phone. We sat closely on the couch, our arms and legs intertwined, as we set the phone on the table with the utmost reverence. Our faces were set in stone as we listened to the first message, as the nurse told us she had the results, please call her as soon as possible, and nothing more. We fumbled and mumbled to each other as we accepted that it was over. We nervously realized that there was another message on the phone. I expected it to be the nurse, calling again to remind me that there was no longer a need to continue with the PIO shots.

With baited breath, we pressed "play" to listen to the remaining message. We were silent and shaking as she reported that they were about to close the office, but wanted us to know that the test was positive, quite positive.

We clenched each other. We laughed and smiled. And then we cried.

***

Today I bought a pregnancy test. I've seen so many negatives, I can't even count, but suffice it to say, many a trashcans were filled up with discarded tests and discarded dreams. I want some of the spontaneity that regular people get. I want a momentary burst of surprise and delight, of unexpected joy. I beamed proudly when the screen read quite clearly "Pregnant".

I walked downstairs, with my hand hidden behind my back, and said to J, "Hey, guess what, sweetie?"

He replied, barely tearing his eyes from the television. "What?"

I jumped in front of him ... "You won't believe it ... you're going to be so surprised. I'm pregnant!"

He grinned, and we both laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

And then, of course, he bugged me about wasting money on a pregnancy test. If only he knew how much they cost ...