Oh don't worry. I'm not going there, although I am definitely venturing into TMI territory.
Scott told me after only two weeks of dating that he wanted kids. Call me overly cautious, but I like to know a guy for a little while before producing offspring with him. Thankfully Scott didn't mean that he wanted children within the next nine months. Although I was already 30, I needed to take some time to think about it. I took half a decade.
Never having particularly enjoyed the company of children, it was with a sense of reckless abandon that I parted ways with birth control a few years ago. My relationship with Scott was sound enough by this time. My ovaries, apparently, were not so sound. One year passed. Another year passed. Scott and I were giving it the ol' college try. I took my temperature regularly, I kept charts faithfully, I peed on sticks hopefully. Nothing.
I began to accept the notion that we were not going to conceive. My family doctor suggested fertility exploration so nonchalantly that the idea entered my mind as something everyday and ordinary rather than as a huge, life-altering decision. Scott and I thought it was worth a try. Our first appointment led us to ask ourselves if we could trust a specialist -- a supposed fertility expert -- who said "sperms" and "tummy" when discussing pregnancy. We decided to give him a chance.
Scott filled a plastic container with swimmers and took it to a lab. He had little to say about the experience other than to complain about the cost of parking for a two-minute drop-off. I remember very little about my first solo appointment at the fertility clinic aside from the fact that the doctor went on and on about how much better she felt now that she had coffee, as I lay on the examination table with the requisite litre of water in my bladder awaiting a very uncomfortable ultrasound. Several minutes later I considered bitch-slapping her when she poked my chubby belly and remarked that "in cases like this" it was often better if the patient did not drink so much water before the procedure. The experience wasn't all bad. I do recall stifling a chuckle when the evidently new-to-English ultrasound technician pronounced "vagina" the way Borat would. Offensive sound bite:
Scott's lab test revealed that he had "supersperm" (his words, not the lab's). Evidently the problem was with me. Another appointment, another unpleasant and invasive test, and finally it was determined that I had polycystic ovaries. (My ova tended to form very small cysts in the ovary rather than maturing and being released like good little eggs should do.) I agreed to try a medication, although I wasn't thrilled about the possible side-effects. When it began affecting my vision, I stopped taking it. The specialist then prescribed a different medication, one normally used to treat diabetes but also accepted as a treatment for polycystic ovaries. It may or may not have helped. I credit my friend Libby for enlightening me about the true signs of ovulation; she lent me a book that drastically changed the look of my bedside charts. She also gave me a tube of, well, never mind. I won't go into further detail. You're welcome.
At long last, shortly before Christmas of 2009, peeing on a stick resulted in this:
(I didn't know about the brand of pregnancy test that shows a happy face to indicate a positive result, otherwise I would have bought it for kicks.)
I'm really hoping that my mother isn't skimming over this post, seeing the photo above and thinking that Kai is about to have a sibling. Kai is going to remain an only child. I will reserve the tale of my post-partum depression for another post, but suffice it to say that "Out of order" would be an appropriate title for that one, too.
The good news is, Kai is thriving and I'm feeling MUCH better now.