Maybe it’s a little bit ironic that one of my true ’80s loves Jon Bon Jovi would throatily beam through my car speakers to ‘Keep the Faith’ as I drove to my appointment with Dr Babies yesterday. I wasn’t scheduled to see him for another week but the clinic phoned and said he had ‘a free slot come up this afternoon, if I could make it’. I wanted another week. A bit of time to gather my shit together enough to face my real true fears. Like bungy jumping without the cord. It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen the only other man who is allowed to insert giant phallic-shaped probes into my lady bits and it’s taken almost that long to recover from what was our last ditch attempt at a viable pregnancy. By shit, I’m trying JBJ…but believe you me like trying to separate an egg yolk, that faith be slipping further from my grip by the fucking second.
Dr Babies doesn’t bullshit. He’s good like that. Doesn’t puff wind up my bum by telling me that if I keep on trying, hoping, praying like Tara Reid of a career resurrection, one day it will happen. He says I’ve/we’ve given it our absolute best shot. We’ve thrown everything we possibly could at it but just can’t seem to hit the bull’s eye. My poor wee eggies were in such a hurry to shrivel up and disappear it’s a bit like an apocolypse had hit my ovaries. says he hasn’t seen such a rapid decline in egg reserve. And that ain’t any stats to be proud of in any kind of sing-songy voice. What that means is there is not really a lot of hope…and sweet fuck all faith left.
Dr Babies knows I’m not up to any more general anesthetics or massive loads of hormones being pumped through my body. He says I am one of those who hasn’t responded well to copious amounts of medications. My body says no. Fuck off.
Instead it’s time to think of other options. We can try ovulation induction and IUI which are far less invasive and require zilch catheters to be inserted into my wrist. Totally up for that. We can keep going on the herbal remedies, the needles and the pilates. Which if nothing else, at least have me fitting all my old clothes again (major fucking bonnnnnus!). We can try and be healthy little vegemites and stupidly (or is that naively) optimistic. Whatever we do and however long we give it…reality will be the one to determine if we ever get to hold a tiny baby of our own.
There are so many fun facts I’ve learned this past four years. I have a massive brain explosion of shit I didn’t really need, much less want, to know. The biggest piece of shit I is the statistics, mostly my own. It’s disparaging to know that your body will let you down. The body you thought could help you and your incredibly beautiful husband create this tiny piece of you and him. The body who has done it before, changed your life and rewarded you with the world’s most amazingly fantastic mini human. The body that is meant to do what women’s bodies all around the world since the beginning of the human race are supposed to do. Procreate.
And fuck me, this is the hardest thing to ever admit to both myself and The Vet but it be getting far too close to the time to accept as much as I’ve thrown every ounce of my being into trying to make a baby of my own, that is part him and part me…there is now very little chance of that ever happening. My body has let me down. I am not the woman I thought I was. Our hopes are slipping too fast to catch. The times when my body would work like clockwork and created one of the most incredible mini humans on the planet, have gone. The dreams I’ve had of growing a little piece of us are just that. Dreams. Hopes and Faith. But those alone don’t make a baby. Eggs, viable ones do. I have jack shit of them. In the words of a 12 y o, fail…epic fail.
Now it’s time to accept the words I’ve tried so fucking hard to block. The reality that is so searingly painful it scorches my heart to even consider it…but if we want to hold a baby in our arms, it won’t be using my own eggs. And that hurts like all shit.
Having given birth to my own creation. Having loved him with all my soul and seen how incredible it is to identify yourself in someone else. Having wanted to give him, me and The Vet another person in the world that shares the same blood, the same genes, the same traits…a tiny human to link us all, the finishing touch on our own little nucleus of a family. To accept I can’t do what I want to do with every drop of blood inside me has stripped me bare.
No amount of wishing, hoping, wanting will change it.
So we are on the search. We are looking for donor eggs. I will join the one-in-five women in my fertility clinic for which using their own eggs is not a chance.
Sometimes, life can be a real fucker.