I visited my gynaecologist today. I should really have scheduled to see him last month, but in my mind I was going to be able to call him and tell him that I was pregnant and that I didn’t need to see him after all. Well, that didn’t happen.
Ten minutes before I was due to drive to the clinic I was with a friend. It had taken her a couple of years to get pregnant and she’d had to have surgery due to some severe endometriosis. We had common ground in our struggle to conceive. We see each other at least once a week, have a coffee and let our kids run amok together in the playground.
As we were leaving she told me – she was 14 weeks pregnant. Fourteen! I saw her every week, often twice a week. She had known for such a long time and hadn’t said anything. Presumably because it was just too awkward. It made me feel really let down. And shit. And upset. Was it really so hard to tell me?
I was happy that she had become pregnant so easily. And I tried not to let it bother me that she hadn’t told me sooner. But I cried all the way home to our place before getting in the car and driving to the gynaecologist. I wish she’d told me sooner. Before today.
My gynaecologist asked about how everything had been since my surgery in November to correct the Asherman’s. I said it all seemed OK, perhaps my cycles were a bit shorter than usual, but that was about it. He said I should start on Clomid. Ah, Clomid, I was wondering when that might pop into conversation. It seemed that every infertility thread I read mentions Clomid.
Alright, well what do we need to do? He explained I need to take the drug on certain days of my cycle, have a scan on day 10, and then they advise you when to try and conceive. The last step in normalcy of our already regimented sex life was about to be removed.
He advised me that it could increase the likelihood of twins, as though that was a bad thing. I understand that there are greater risks in pregnancy with twins but TWINS! I would be so extraordinarily happy if we had twins.
And he wanted my husband to have a sperm count test. I had to have a giggle at the thought – my husband was having a laugh with a friend a few weeks ago about being asked to perform into a plastic container, presumably giving him some grief about it. How awkward.
The realisation hit me: more tests, more drugs, more appointments, more tests, more drugs, more appointments. I was like a long-term medical experiment. My son wasn’t going to get a sibling until he was at least four. I would have been absolutely crushed had I known that at the time he was born. Now I am just numb with disappointment and a weak positivity that one day things will happen for us.
I took the fertility booklet, the scripts, the blood test forms, and cried. My son asked me what was wrong and gave me a pen and paper and said if I drew with him I would be happy again. What a cute guy. No wonder I want another one so badly.