An unexplained journey

In my early twenties, I would boast that I didn't want children. I suppose I thought it made me edgy, different. It was a minor act of rebellion, something I did so little of. Totally opposite of what I thought others expected from me. Besides, at the tender age of 13 I watched my older sister go through a horrendously painful labor experience, and I thought "absolutely not for me". It was an excellent form of birth control.

Before Scott and I married, I made it clear to him that I didn't want kids. I didn't see it in my future, and he needed to know what he was getting into. He always said that I'd change my mind, and I'd usually retort that he "clearly didn't know me".

He knew me better than I knew myself. At 26 I started getting this nagging feeling that maybe I did want kids after all. I'd look at babies and wonder what mine and Scott's infant might look like. I started to envision a life with a little one running around. I'd broach the subject with Scott tentatively at first, bringing up the idea of a family carefully. With trepidation, I'd ask, "what do you think about kids? Should we have them? I think I may want to ... one day."

Scott and I were epic at kicking the can down the road. Yes, he wanted kids. One day. Not today. He was in grad school and we were broke. Not a good time to start a family. And then we moved back to San Diego, Scott got a real job, and we were less broke. But we were thoroughly enjoying our time in San Diego. We wanted to relish in the SoCal lifestyle. Just the two of us.

We made the mutual decision to go off birth control in August 2014. Not necessarily to starting trying for a baby, but to give me a break from the hormones. A baby step toward building a family, although we deluded ourselves into saying we still weren't entirely ready for children. But if we did get pregnant, that would be okay. We didn't use any protection. Relied on the pull and pray method for a few months. And then eventually stopped any minimal form of prevention.

A year passed. No pregnancy. Oddly not a single scare. I was also suffering from debilitating menstrual cramps and horrible periods. I shared my concerns with my primary doctor, and he referred us to a reproductive endocrinologist.

I'll save you the mind numbing details. But after months of various types of tests, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility. I'll never forget the appointment when the doctor told us we would need medical intervention to get pregnant. My secretly held hope and romanticized view of "accidentally" getting pregnant gone.

So, now, the girl who originally never even wanted kids was going to need medical assistance to get pregnant. It took us six months to digest this latest reality. I tortured myself with thoughts that I was being punished for vehemently pronouncing that I didn't want children. That the universe was somehow seeking revenge on me. Wracked with guilt, regret and frustration, it took me months to deal with my anger. To be honest, I may still be dealing with it.

Our first round of treatment was filled with hope and excitement. I felt like a deer in headlights, overwhelmed and vulnerable at each appointment. I dissected every symptom and obsessively googled what other women in my situation experienced. While I knew it could fail, I didn't really think that it would. We were finally getting the appropriate medical treatment!

Scott is a champ in the doctor's office. He asks all the right questions. Questions I wouldn't even think of to ask. He's at every appointment. Even the ones he doesn't need to attend. He's done additional research, talked about odds with the doctors, and tightly held my hand through it all.

Due to an over-response to the medication, we had to cancel the first round of treatment. We've since undergone four additional rounds. I'm smack in the middle of the fifth round. Somewhere in the whirlwind, I developed this terrible habit of referring to myself as broken. It started as a joke. A way to make light of another failed round of treatment. But I internalized the message in a way that's difficult to describe. My body can't do what it's biologically made to do. My body is incapable of producing a child.

My counselor took a serious issue with my overused "I'm broken" line. She actually teared up when I told her about it. It took me by complete surprise. It was heartbreaking to her that I took one medical instance, of which I had no control, to describe myself. That I had reduced myself to a medical diagnosis. She challenged this concept, "Is someone with diabetes broken? Because their body can't process insulin properly? How about someone with cancer? How is that any different than what you're experiencing?" She helped me in ways that she probably doesn't even know. I honestly no longer consider myself broken.

We're less hopeful now. Still vulnerable with guarded optimism. Each failure is a donkey kick to the gut. The second failure was the hardest. I was coming down with a horrendous head cold and I started spotting three days before my period was due. I remember coming out of the shower completely nude and breaking down in the kitchen. In between congested sobs, Scott held me and promised that it would be okay. We'd try again.

And try again we did. They've all failed. The last negative didn't impact me at all. No tears. No frustration. I'd expected it. I didn't need to pee on that pregnancy test to know that it was negative. I intuited it.

This round I'm experiencing more negative side effects to the treatment. These last few weeks have been challenging. Headaches. Acephalgic migraines. Extreme bloating. Mood swings. Fatigue. It's the same treatment, so I have no idea why my body is choosing to react this way now. As I've been told countless times during this journey, biology is complicated.

And while I'm less hopeful and uncertain of what the future holds, Scott's right. It will be okay. No matter how it all turns out.

Now in my early thirties, I proudly share that I want to be a mother. I'm adamant about this visceral desire to raise a child with my life partner. And I have faith that it will all work out someday. The journey may not look like what I expect it to. And that's okay.