As soon as we started trying, I began to tell everyone. I knew it was risky, but I just couldn’t contain myself. I was so excited for this new journey and I never was one to hide my emotions. I have always worn my heart on my sleeve.
Months and months went by…I did everything right. I gave my body time to regulate after being on birth control (for basically all of my reproductive life); I tracked my ovulation using a kit. We even started using “fertility friendly” lube. But after just one month of trying and nothing…I had a bad feeling that something was not exactly right.
You see, I always did everything right when it came to my reproductive health; it’s in my blood. My mother is a nurse midwife and she knew about the minute I started having sex. She prescribed me my first birth control, how ever unethical that may have been. I took it on time, every single day since I was 16 years old. I got my yearly pap smears, I used protection and I got tested regularly. Because I liked sex and I wasn’t ashamed of it, but I was always acutely aware of the consequences it could bear. So, I was smart about it. It’s so funny; you spend your whole fucking life protecting yourself against it, then, when you decide the time is right, you expect it to be easy. But it doesn’t always work out that way.
I am now on month 6 of trying, which may not seem like all that much to some people. But, like I said, after the first month, I knew something wasn’t right. “At my age” (like my mother so delicately put it), “after 6 months of trying, you should go get checked out.” So like the reproductively responsible woman I am, at exactly 6 months, I went in the see MY midwife (not my mother, just in case you were worried). She did an exam…everything normal. She did blood tests…everything normal. She did a pelvic ultrasound…uh oh! “The endometrial echo complex demonstrates multiple tiny cystic structures, the largest one measures 6 x 3 x 3 mm, of uncertain etiology”. What the fuck does that mean?
At this point, we aren’t quite sure, but to me it feels like a death sentence (I am also not a melodramatic at all, just ask my husband). When I called to talk to my midwife about the results and what the next steps are, I had to leave a message. The midwife’s nursing assistant called back the next day and said “the midwife would really like you to come in and talk with her directly about your results”. Fuck me!
I have an appointment in a week. I am scared. Now, I don’t want to talk about it with anyone. It’s no longer an exciting new journey of trying to conceive our first child. It’s a scary, dark, tunnel of the unknown and I am not sure I want to see what is on the other side.