God bless the broken road that is infertility

     I have been thinking lately about all that had happened in the past two years. It was late December 2008, early January 2009 when we tossed out the birth control and giddily began planning for our first baby. We even made a bet with each other on how quickly we would get pregnant. Flaco bet the first three months. I bet 6-9 months. We both lost.
     The first year I remained pretty hopeful. When Aunt Flo would show up, I would just think, "Oh well, maybe next month." Three times over the course of that first year I went to see my doctor, thinking I was preggo. Three times, after dreaded (because of the needle) blood tests, I was devastated.
     I have been charting my periods, when I am likely to be fertile, and the potential due date if I were to get pregnant. Every month, without fail. Thankfully, my doctor (I  call her my doctor, but she is actually a nurse mid-wife and I love her) told me not to worry about trying to track my ovulation with kits or by taking my temperature. So, I was saved from that particular obsession. I did pee on plenty of sticks! And I would stare at them, hoping by sheer desire to get the magic pink lines (or plus sign for some of the tests). I even threw them away and then went back to the trash, to dig them out and double check the results. It never changed.
     My doctors office had me ride out the obligatory year before we began discussing "other" options. First, we needed to discern if I ovulate due to my irregular periods. Three months of blood tests later and zero ovulation. I was so crushed by this, but not surprised. I suppose I was expecting to get the results that something was "broken" in the reproductive area. So, this past July I was supposed to start on Clomid - the go-to infertility med. But, Aunt Flo was taking her sweet old time coming. In fact, she was so late that, after peeing on another stick, they gave me progesterone to induce a period. Oh, the cramps! Then I took my first round of the Clomid.
     Initially, being on Clomid gave me hope. In my mind ovulation = baby, no? What I didn't realize was that Clomid is actually a vile poison. Now, I never loved the pill - it made me either Suicidal Sally, Angry Annie, or Eating-like-a-linebacker Edith. My body does not take kindly to the messing of the hormones. I dutifully took the 50mg of Clomid on the designated days. Then, one sunny summer afternoon I went grocery shopping. I was in the middle of the grocery store when an over-whelming wave of dizziness hit me like a ton of swirling bricks. I stopped, stood still, and held onto the shopping cart for dear life. I don't know how long I stood there, like some crazy, hyperventilating statue, but I did manage to call Flaco at work. He could not leave to come get me, so I was on my own. Swallowing the nausea rising in my throat, I quickly finished my shopping and sat in my car until the world stopped spinning like a vomit-inducing top. When I finally got home, I took a nap (I napped a lot that first week). Then, I noticed I was getting a lot of heartburn and so needed to have some Tums within reach at all times. One night, I had just laid down to go to bed, when I felt a heat coming from low in my stomach and rising up to my face. It reminded me of when you take a shot of some really strong liquor, how it burns all the way down. I broke out in a sweat and wondered what was happening to me! It was my first hot flash. My final side effect from the Clomid was the pain in my breasts, which began the first month and only ended the beginning of this month, now that I am no longer taking the medicine (well, until my period begins this week - IF, if my period begins this week! Gotta think positive, right?!). But, this is alllllllll worth it, if it means we can have a baby.
     I think the hardest thing every month, is saying good-bye to my "baby." As hard as I try, as much as I tell myself to not think about it every month, to "stop trying," every month I am crushed. Every month, I head to the commode and find that familiar and unwelcome spot on the paper. I try to remain positive and think our time will come, but I always end up sobbing and mentally un-doing all of the dreams I dared to dream since the previous month. I begin the month on a high note, thinking, "Could this finally be happening for us?" I begin to think about what it will feel like to be pregnant, how excited I will be to tell the whole world, to tell our parents (we are both the oldest in our family and the baby will be the first grandchild on both sides). I think about what labor and the delivery will be like. I write out lists of names when I am bored at work. I think about the look on my husbands face when the doctor places our baby in his arms. I think of breast feeding and investigate how to go about getting FMLA from work. Sometimes, I even imagine sending our sweet little one off to school or taking a family trip to Nicaragua. I have about 2 weeks for these dreams to take shape, to form and to start feeling real. Until . . . . they all wash down the drain with the first signs of my period. And then I have to deconstruct all those thoughts, all of those sweet dreams, and I have to say good-bye to the baby I have never even had. I wallow in self-pity for a day to a week and then climb back on the trying to conceive wagon to start this masochist cycle all over again. As the months ticked by, the dreams began to feel more and more far-fetched. Like they were for everyone else, but not for me and Flaco. The positive pregnancy test continued to allude us.
     Last month my husband got hurt at work. He cut off the top of his thumb and needed surgery to re-create the tip of his thumb with part of flesh and skin from the palm of his hand. He got hurt at the beginning of my "fertile window." I was part angry (not at him, but at the poor timing) and part depressed. Another month down the drain. I took the Clomid for nothing. Then I decided I needed to get over myself. This wasn't about me. My husband was hurt and needed time to heal. So, I tried very conscientiously to be more laid back and to not be so emotionally invested in trying to have a baby that I let everything else fall apart. So, I am trying to break this cycle. I don't let myself cry over baby commercials. I won't let myself fall apart when I see a newborn with people falling all over him/her. I don't let the news that someone I know is expecting tear me apart. I don't know if this is the right thing to do either, but I need to desensitize myself so I don't fall apart completely. Thus far, I am keeping it together. But, it's only been a little over a month. And with the information I was given earlier this week (that I ovulated all on my own), it is soooooo incredibly hard to not get a little bit excited and to begin dreaming again. . . . . .  What if . . . . . . ? At least now I have an outlet, through this blog.