The Infertility Trail
Day 13.
Morale is low.
It is only 8:00 and I am already filled with anxiety for my impending fertility appointment in one hour.
When you are trying to conceive with the help of Chlomid or Fumera, or the other two handfuls of possible fertility medications, Day 13 of your cycle is suddenly very important.
Day 13 becomes a city in the dry Plains that either offers freshwater or false hope for the journey ahead.
It is on Day 13 that the OB will look for follicles, measure them and send you on your way with instructions about when and if you should have intercourse.
Like I said, Day 13 is very important.
The truth is, I have begun to feel emotionally weighed down from this trail of infertility. The yoke of my wagon is broken, dragging behind me, stirring up the very dust I choke on. But I go to the appointment anyway because sometimes a carefully marked turning point is easier to follow than our own instincts.
When you cannot see through clouds of dirt you must rely on your compass and the knowledge of others.
My OB is a wonderful man who admits that while he is a specialist in the field, he doesn’t, can’t and will never have first-hand advice to give me. Whenever he says things like this to me I feel seen, which isn’t always easy to feel in this process.
We make small talk about Thanksgiving as he clicks and measures the two found follicles.
After performing the ultrasound and sharing the results, he asks me how I’m really doing, how I’m handling all of this. He is looking at his computer screen with his back turned to me. He cannot see the tears begin to well from the corners of my eyes, but he must be able to hear my throat tremor. By the time he turns around with a Kleenex box in his hands, I am already crying.
I pour my frustrations about this long journey into his listening ears. I become vulnerable in a way that I have not felt able to do in months. I release the pain, the anger, the confusion. And then I listen to his words of hope. He knows the long hours in the hot sun have left me thirsty and weak, aching for answers or at least some kind of break. But, he also knows the path before me. He has been here before and he can see an ending to this journey that I cannot. Believing him, I wipe the last tear from my eyes. I have reached the fork in the road and the choice is mine. There is no wrong way, but I must choose a path.
I pick up my yoke and put it back together, carefully securing it to the wagon. Then, quickly, frantically, I begin throwing things from this wagon that I do not need: an imagined Christmas card with four people on the front, the weighty steel bars of resentment, the idea that I am in charge of anything at all. I hoist myself atop the wagon and become the passenger I was always meant to be, ready to enjoy the new path set before me.
I have no idea what I will see.
It is only Day 13 after all.
Who knows how far away Oregon really is anyway?