I need to preface this blog by stating that I realize that we haven’t been trying that long. These days, I feel like I need to preface my life by stating this. I know. I know that it takes time. I know that it’s a process. I know that there’s only a 30% chance of conception in any given cycle under the best of circumstances. I know that I need to relax. I know that everyone’s second cousin tried for three years and got pregnant the month after they stopped trying. I know.
But I can’t attend any more baby showers without having some sort of steam valve. I can’t keep swallowing the urge to rant about how desperately unfair it seems that we can’t make our baby at home. I’m so grateful that we live in a province where we can access fertility services as a couple and register a birth together, but I’m turning to blogging in part because it’s that or start chatting to casual acquaintances about sperm. I’m turning to blogging because I love my straight friends, but I don’t know what I’m going to do if one more of them gets knocked up on the first try, or without trying at all. Through sex with their partners. It boggles my mind.
Here’s the thing…. I reassured my wife that it might take time, and warned our friends not to get excited too quickly. I didn’t buy baby shoes or start a Pinterest board. I knew that it could take a long time. Except…. I didn’t really believe that it would. I had brain surgery almost two years ago, and the recovery was hard. I think that I honestly believed that after so much work to get healthy again, the universe was just going to give us this one.
Somewhere along the road I sort of forgot that an actual human infant was the end goal to all of these blood draws, the reason that I’m taking my pants off on a daily basis for strangers waving ultrasound wands. When I look back at my journal from that first hope-soaked cycle, it startles me to remember how much I worried about the concept of becoming a parent. Were we ready? Was I crazy to voluntarily take on sleepless nights when I was finally feeling healthy again? Was I going to be an anxious parent? A good-enough one?
Nearly seven months later, I’m not so concerned. I didn’t magically decide that I’m going to be a great mother, but I’m more preoccupied with exactly how many hours after my surge is the ideal time to inseminate. This process, the magic of conception, has become so much more about the practical logistics of cycle monitoring and supplements and teas and ordering sperm at the right time than it is about the much more fuzzy concept of actually making a baby.
At any rate, I have things to write about this crazy process, from the whole experience of being fertile in an infertility clinic, how we’ve been unravelling known vs. unknown donors, and how I snicker every single time I say the words “Canadian Compliant Sperm.” I keep telling my wife that I want defiant sperm instead. Maybe it would be pluckier, you know?
So I don’t know if I have anything important to say, but I’m going to say it anyway.