AN APOLOGY

Dear front-desk person at the fertility clinic,

I’m sorry I was rude toward you on Sunday morning. You see, it was 9 a.m., and already a transvaginal wand had been probing around my desolate uterus. And now, you won’t allow me to make an appointment for a follicular scan on Monday, because Monday is a holiday, and I am frustrated because certain steps need to be taken on certain days, and my ovaries don’t celebrate Labor Day.

I tried to tell you in a nice way that when I was on the phone with the nurse a few days ago, she specifically instructed me to make an appointment for the morning of Labor Day, because I will be out of town the day before. But then you looked at me with a withering stare that said, “Your travel plans are not my problem,” and I may have lost my temper with you a bit. Or went totally berserk, it’s hard to say.

I must admit, your attitude was less than stellar, but going into work to deal with sad, desperate infertiles is probably not your favorite thing to do on a Sunday morning. And you are not alone. The rest of your staff, for the most part, is equally brusque, checked out or clueless.

I’ve been called the wrong name by a doctor I’ve never seen before while laying on my back in a surgical suite, bare vag to the sky, in order to have dye pumped through my fallopian tubes. I’ve had a plebotomist complain to me about her kids while drawing my blood. I’ve been confused by the patient coordinator, barked at by your finance department, overwhelmed by handouts, and forced to ask the nurse exactly when to have “timed relations” while sitting in my office cubicle on the phone.

For all this, I’m paying your clinic hundreds of dollars. And we’re only just beginning.

We were hoping for answers, but instead I got a prescription for a breast-cancer drug that’s being prescribed off-label, because your employer can’t really figure out what’s wrong with us. And standing before you, begging you to schedule me an appointment to have my follicles checked, is not something I ever, in a million years, imagined myself doing. Yet there I was.

So you’ll have to forgive me that I lost my temper. If you had let me schedule the appointment, I could rest assured that everything would be on track for Philip to shoot me up with a syringe full of hormones in 11 days. That is all I want in life right now. ALL. I. WANT. And you were standing in my way. So I got upset.

But I recognize that you were just trying to do your job, and my infertility is not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. There’s no one to be mad at, so I got mad at you, which isn’t fair. I apologize. I promise it won’t happen again. At least not as long as someone else is manning the front desk the next time I come in.

Sincerely,

Erika

RITES OF PASSAGE FOR THE FERTILE, PART 1*: THE GENDER REVEAL

I just got invited to a baby-gender-reveal dinner. The couple will get a sealed envelope containing the ultrasound results and bring it to Publix. Then Publix will make a cake with either blue or pink filling. When they cut the cake after dinner, the filling will indicate the gender.

My jealousy and pain make me think I can't handle attending this event. However, my conscience says I should suck it up and be supportive. Also, I really like Publix cake.

What should I do?

*There will likely not be a Part 2.

ALUMNI UPDATE

Periodically I get a newsletter from my college campus ministry that contains updates about my former classmates. These nuggets are an opportunity for people to share about their thriving families and many church involvements. Here is an example:

Herb and Shania (Jenkins) Jones* have been married for four years. Shania attended CCH from 2002-2006. She graduated in May 2007 with a degree in social science. Herb and Shania live in Butterworth, IN*, with their daughter, Apple Blue Ivy* (5 mos.), and Shania is a stay-at-home mom. Shania says Apple Blue Ivy is a gift from God, and they love watching her learn and grow! Herb and Shania's home church is Jesus Bible Faith Community*, where they are involved in children's ministry, and Herb helps lead meetings. Shania said being involved in their church has been a blessing to them and others. [Address, phone, email]

I have thought about writing in with my own update. It would go something like this:

Philip and Erika (Larson) Hueneke have been married for seven years. Erika attended CCH from 1998-2002. Erika is senior weddings editor of Destination Weddings & Honeymoons magazine, and Philip is a project manager at Lockheed Martin. Erika and Philip have been without a church home for so many years, they have lost count. They have tried at least eight congregations over the last few years, but their pickiness, criticalness and sheer laziness prevent them from committing anywhere. They do attend a small group, which is limping along at six members. Erika and Philip live in Orlando, Florida, with their two cats, upon which they dote uncontrollably. They have been infertile for 1.5 years, and this month they began diagnostic treatments, which involve multiple blood tests, a semen sample and several intimate encounters with a transvaginal wand. [Address, phone, email]

*Identifying names and places have been changed to protect nice, well-meaning strangers who don't deserve to be mocked in this blog.

NEW CHAPTER

I started this blog about a year ago with the purpose of it being a TTC blog. That stands for "trying to conceive," for all you fertile readers who have no need for super-awesome infertility acronyms. I had hoped it would swiftly transform into a pregnancy blog, and then again morph into a motherhood blog.

I figured that if we had trouble conceiving, it would be a good spot to vent and sort my feelings. But you know, I really didn't think we'd have trouble conceiving. I was scared to death we would, but I didn't think that would actually happen. We're so healthy. I get my period every month. Almost everyone else we knew had conceived like gangbusters. And I had been charting my cycles for nine months by the time we officially started trying. I was so educated. I knew exactly when to turn on my charms of seduction.

But here we are, 15 months after taking the big leap, childless as can be. We've bought our nest, saved our pennies, paid off our loans and spent years investing in our relationship. We've taken dream trips and checked big achievements off our bucket lists. We love Jesus, and we eat healthy, balanced meals. I think we'll make pretty kick-ass parents, except for this one nagging problem.

I try to avoid posts like this, where I'm just rambling about my feelings, but we're at a bit of a precipice now, anticipating our first appointment with the fertility clinic. To me, it's a great white flag, an admittance of defeat. To Philip, it's a firm concrete step, hopefully toward answers. I'm ready to go, and I'm deeply thankful that we have the financial resources. But I just can't believe that I'm one of the infertile ones. My desire for a child of our own flesh and blood is practically suffocating, and we just can't do it. We keep trying and trying, and we have an army of people praying for us, but at the end of every month, it's the same heartbreak. It's helpless and awful. It's always in the back of my mind, often the front. I put up with well-intentioned but bad advice and stories of friends of friends of friends that have nothing to do with me or my reproductive system. I wrestle with shameful feelings of envy and resentfulness toward my friends. I fret over the future. I wrestle with God's hand in all of this. I worry that I don't deserve children.

On the flip side, I lead a very exotic life. This year alone, I've been to St. Kitts, Nevis, the Dominican Republic, Los Angeles and Savannah. In my lifetime, I've set foot on five of the seven continents. I've trained my body to run for miles, and I've lost 15 pounds. I have friends all over the U.S., and I eat lunch with some of my closest girlfriends every day. I get to be creative at my job, and I have a husband who is my dream man. I cuddle my cats at night, and I'm never bored.

So, it's weird.

It does feel like a chapter is closing, and a new one is opening. We're done being just a couple trying to have a baby. We are officially diagnosed as infertile (even though I've felt infertile since we started trying, and I do try to avoid that word). So now we are starting the Fertility Treatment chapter, full of appointments and meds and blood tests and a whole new slew of acronyms. Will it end with a pregnancy or just a drained bank account? Will we pursue adoption if we fail? Who knows. Philip tells me not to think about it, so I try not to.

I can't control the outcome, so it's better to focus on things I can control, one of which is this blog. In case people are finding it who don't know me, I've added a photo and a little welcome note on the right-hand side. I've also added a page about our full fertility journey this far, in case any of y'all need a refresher. I've been reading more and more fertility blogs, and goodness knows I want the photo and the back story. I'm an amazing blog creeper, as a matter of fact.

Thanks always for reading, and for continuing to come back even though I post only about once a month. Thanks for supporting us and praying for us and for not bringing up fertility; I promise I'll go there if I feel like talking about it. Thanks for continuing to invite me to baby showers and one-year-old birthday parties, even though I usually don't go. Thanks for caring and for trying to navigate this whole dumb situation with me; it can't last forever, can it?