What do you mean these eggs are expired?
Content warning: infertility
Our honeymoon is amazing. Yes amazing for all the typical reasons, but also…wheat berry pancakes. I am not kidding around. They are incredible. I don’t even like pancakes but these? Memorable. Delicious.
It’s our first weekend home after our honeymoon. Saturday morning breakfast at a restaurant we’d never been to before. The waitress is strangely devoid of boundaries and keeps hanging all over Anji, much to Anji’s discomfort. At some point one of us informs her that her over familiarity is inappropriate and unappreciated.
Driving home that afternoon I feel desperately tired – shaky. Suddenly very unwell. I fall asleep as soon as we get home.
Beginning the next morning I am violently, helplessly, ridiculously ill. I roll out of bed and am instantly sick. My vision is blurred by watering eyes. I am disoriented and disgusting. I cannot stop vomiting. My body requires every ounce of energy to meet its basic needs. I am barely aware of anything happening outside of my body.
Anji enters and leaves the room several times – checking on me. Tending to me. I don’t want to be this vulnerable. I don’t want to put her in this position of so thoroughly taking care of me but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it.
After several hours Anji decides I need to go to urgent care. It is only a couple miles from our house but I was so so so very sick. The thought of being in a moving car feels unbearable.
She dresses me while I lay in bed shaking. She practically carries me to the car. Her son is mildly concerned but mostly un-phased – he has new facts about the Titanic he is eager to share on our way to the clinic.
It is this day, mid-April 2011, that I discover the gift, the magic of a medication called Zofran. After a few failed attempts they get an IV going. I wake up on a hospital bed. I feel so much better. There is my love, still just as in love as before my helplessness. Undeterred.
I return to the land of the living and over the next few weeks demonstrate my usefulness, primarily by doing yard work.
At the end of May we have a consultation with a fertility clinic. I am over the moon excited at the prospect of doting on Anji while she grows our baby. Based on her first she has demonstrated a knack for making children with above average cuteness and intelligence.
It is going to be so perfect. I am going to buy her ice cream late at night and rub her feet and stroke her hair and rub her back and talk to the baby through her stomach and read the baby stories from the outside and pack the hospital bag and have a communication plan to notify family and friends in the correct order. All we needed was to conceive and based on how many people get pregnant accidentally, surely by utilizing science and careful tracking it won’t take long. I am so excited. I love babies!!!
The nurse practitioner enters the room. We share with her our desires and our concerns. At the end of her first pregnancy Anji separated her pelvis – what are the chances that could happen again? Regardless, we will deal with it.
The nurse turns to me. “How old are you?”
“Twen..ty..Sev..en…”
“Here’s the thing. Based on Anji’s age I would not recommend using her eggs. The risks are really high. It is in your future child’s best interest that we move forward with you carrying.”
“I………. I’m…… wait what?”
“Think about it and let me know when you are ready to move forward.”
It is not that I had never considered being pregnant. Rather, once I found Anji I was relieved. Anji had experience being pregnant. She was good at it. She makes a quality product. Sure, there was the pelvis thing but otherwise it was smooth sailing.
Fuck. What would I even wear?
This is not what either of us had in mind. We both have to process that this dream is not going to go the way we had planned. It is irritating and heartbreaking.
The facts of the matter were difficult to feel our way through. Was she being denied the chance to be pregnant because my age was associated with fewer risks? Was I being asked to carry because of the risks associated with her age? Were we each the reason for the others’ pain? Regardless we were only in this position because we hadn’t met sooner. And it sucked
From very early in our relationship I am honest with Anji, to the degree that I am honest with myself, about my gender. I consider myself to be fairly masculine. True that in college I had pondered the line between butch lesbian and trans-guy, but I had never met a trans guy. It didn’t seem like a real thing and anyway… I am strong enough to accept my body for what it is. I tell myself it is so sad when people go to such extremes instead of just accepting themselves. I tell myself that I don’t care what other people think. I told myself I was strong and that there is virtue in suffering.
It isn’t what we had been dreaming of but…I guess I could be that vulnerable. I could probably grow a baby. It wouldn’t be as cute as her baby but, it would probably be smart and we could work on the baby’s comedic timing.
We are so fortunate to have this choice. If I didn’t have a uterus, we would only have the option to pursue a high risk pregnancy. And though I have a uterus, which makes getting pregnant rather expensive, we have the financial means to pursue a healthy pregnancy. Really, it only mattered for the first 10 months anyway.
I complete required testing. We pick a sperm donor. Arrange for shipping and storage. We buy only a few vials – at 27 + science, I should be pregnant any minute now. I am an over achiever. If most people have a 20% chance of conceiving per cycle, I’m sure I can knock this out in one – two cycles tops.
Cycle 1 – IUI – Anyone who has earnestly focused on getting pregnant will tell you that the two week wait between trying to conceive and finding out if you were successful drag on for an eternity. But there is so much planning to do. Thinking of names and looking at nursery themes and discussing parental values. My period comes, there is barely a minute to process. We have to call that day to get everything lined up for our next try.
Cycle 2 – IUI – Since we failed last time it seems like the odds should now be at least 1:4. Twwwwooooo weeeeks. Cramping. My period starts. Call. Schedule the next cycle.
Cycle 3 – IUI – Ok, just need to focus. And relax. Don’t stress, stress isn’t good for trying to conceive. *Googles “how to increase fertility* *Buys a bunch of teas* *Discovers I hate tea* Cramping. Non-Cramping. Maybe that was implantation cramping! My period starts. We are out of sperm.
We go to every appointment together. We hold hands. She files away the paperwork for her pinch-hitter. There is so much love here. So much hope.
The sperm bank is out of vials for the donor we chose. We are looking at donor profiles over lunch. If we don’t order today it won’t ship in time. There are no German/Norwegian donors with hazel eyes like Anji who also are musically inclined. Tall but not too tall. Healthy family history. We start to compromise. We order two more vials. In two more cycles that would have been five tries. So, with a 20% chance, after 5 tries I should be pregnant. Plus, we are going to start fertility meds but first…
We check with our parents, “If we accidentally end up with three babies are any of you willing to relocate?” Yes! Ok, let’s do this thing.
Cycle 4 – Medicated IUI – I feel shitty, and moody and desperate though I didn’t really quite know the full extent of how desperate one could get. My period is late. No, wait, no it’s…it’s just a few hours late really…not that late I guess.
Cycle 5 – Medicated IUI – two.week.wait. – My period starts.
I need a break. We have a family vacation planned. It is the holidays. We meet Anji’s family in Disney World for a fantastic family vacation.
We take a few months off.
We pick a new donor. We order one vial because this time, we are also adding a trigger shot. My loving wife is going to shoot me in the butt. Then, we are going to get pregnant dammit.
Cycle 6 – Trigger shot – two week wait. My period starts. It’s fine. We will try again. These things take time.
We order a vial, arrange for shipping.
Cycle 7 – Trigger shot – Anji gets my shot ready. *boing* OW! “Sorry it just bounced right off!” *boing* “Babe what the hell?” “I.AM.SORRY. It just bounced right off.” *boing* *boing* “GAHHH! What are you doing?!” “I’m sorry. I love you I don’t know what is happening!” “Just do it. I’m ready. Just, force it.”
After six fails, the needle finally goes in. I look like a pin cushion with 6 tiny little bloody holes. Apparently the needle was randomly dull. But…two weeks later…my period returns.
We order a vial, arrange for shipping. It is exhausting that the day we find out we are not pregnant is the same day we have to schedule everything. Anji is amazing and takes care of a lot of the details.
Cycle 8 – Trigger shot – Ever been poked in the fundus? I do not recommend. Two week wait. My period starts.
This goes on and on. We occasionally take breaks. Focus on other things. The last few cycles I am on major fertility meds. I have got 5+ follicles ready to launch little eggs. Every vial so far has had great stats – hearty, speedy swim teams.
Cycle 13 – Trigger shot – so many meds – we don’t talk about our future child anymore. 18 months have passed since the first try. “If this doesn’t work I would like you to come into the office. We have a program that I think you are ideal candidates for. It’s 800 trillion bazillion dollars, but highly successful.”
My period comes.
I am exhausted. I feel like a failure. I can’t watch movies about people having children. I can’t feel joy for others who are pregnant. I feel rage when I see, what is, in my judgement, subpar parenting or hear of people having unplanned pregnancies.
Yet in all other aspects, my life is happy and joyful. Could we just…not have a child? I cannot. Now I know a new level of desperation.
I cash out my retirement account and we embark on the obstacle course which is IVF. Now that we are on this course we have three chances to conceive and if we are not successful then Gandalf drops down onto the bridge to parenthood and yells, “You shall not pass.”
That's Mr. Gender to You 