the most vanilla kind of infertility, 21 weeks, 4 days

I’m quick to admit – and shortly thereafter feel guilty about the fact – that my particular flavor of infertility was rather vanilla (as long as we’re keeping with this convoluted ice cream metaphor). What I mean is (just kidding, new metaphor), my infertility was very junior league. A mere 14 months. Nothing some Clomid, Ovidrel, IUI and rigidly scheduled sex can’t sort out <she says, appearing casual, shuddering at the memories>.

And it’s true. And I do feel guilty. But being nearly 22 weeks pregnant, there’s still some of that infertility-ness kicking around. Having dealt with infertility – in whatever form – has left me a slightly different kind of pregnant lady.

Infertility means that now, five months along, I still carry an emergency supply of tampons and a strangely comprehensive array of pads – in varying thicknesses! – everywhere I go[1], certain that at any moment, this fairytale will end, and, you know, <insert reasonable alternative> catastrophic, bloody calamity will ensue!

It means that when I’m told that I’m measuring 6 days ahead, I tear into the deepest vortexes of the interwebs, not content with the reassurance of my exceedingly competent, medically licensed obstetrician, and instead happy to rely on the “wisdom” of anonymous trolls and moms-to-be, peddling their wares on Yahoo answers and various pregnancy forums.

It means that my long suffering husband, who only wants to put his hands on my now-growing-rounder belly and utter whale sounds to our blossoming babe (something about sonar?), was shooed away for approximately the first 14 weeks, my eyes aflame with the terror of elementary school jinx.

Infertility means that when a dear friend says she is sure that she will get pregnant immediately, because she just knows, I can only nod my head longingly; meanwhile the resonating cognitive dissonance threatens to explode my fragile skull[2]. Of course, I hope she’s right, but, unfortunately, <whispered quietly, eyes darting back and forth> I KNOW TOO MUCH!

Infertility – or, let’s be honest, just being a female citizen of planet earth[3] – means that when my 40 year old neighbor is pregnant with twins, I’m quick to assume that she received some kind of, ahem, assistance (breaking: I was right! <curtsy>).

It also means that, unfortunately for my loving peers, I’m the pregnant lady who, owing mostly to more than a year of unexpected terror inconvenience, is relatively quick to offer up details of what my fallopian tubes look like lit up with radioactive dye and just how my husband’s sperm made its way into my lady parts, in all of it’s deliberateness.

What I’m trying to say, dear world, dear world that has endured my flagrant candor and unceasing uterus related drivel, is this: I am so very sorry YOU’RE WELCOME.

In unrelated but incredibly intriguing news, when you write a blog, you can see how other unknowing dolts stumbled upon your written word. Apparently, I do not look at this frequently enough. Here are some actual searches that led to my blog just this week:

·      Deceitful ways to get pregnant[4]

·      i want to quit meth but i’m [sic] petrofied[5]

·      fallopian terrible[6]

Updated to add: after re-reading this post like the narcissist that i am, i realize it may have come across as a little tone deaf. i hope it didn't. i'm tremendously grateful to be pregnant and i do feel lucky - and i also feel different and changed by my experience. but, really, more than anything, i hope that others who are on the roller coaster of infertility find success sooner rather than later.

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[1] Even though this wild assortment and it’s related zip carrying pouch takes up PRECIOUS real estate in my purse which could be used for like, you know, snacks and, also, other snacks.

[2] It’s fragile because it now appears to be teetering on the growing-larger body of a now waddling pregnant lady. Ahem, <points to self>.

[3] I don’t know what it is, but every time I write the words “planet earth” (which is, apparently, frequently?), Herman Cain’s voice rings through my brain, CITIZENS OF EARTH! *pausing while you digest the fact that I have now discussed my uterus and Herman Cain in the same post* Ready, now? If you haven’t watched this, please, TURN UP THE VOLUME and cross your fingers that he runs again in 2016!

[4] What! Please tell me what teenager is trying to “keep” her boyfriend around with this afterschool-special-tested strategy? No, seriously, who are you? I’m dying to know. I need to tell your boyfriend that you poked holes in all the condoms.

[5] Me too, anonymous internet sleuth, me too. (Also, maybe they were just trying to find the new episodes of breaking bad?)

[6] I feel like this should be a catchphrase. Man, that shit was fallopian terrible! Like you know, “fallopian” qualifies the type of terrible. That could be a thing, right?