A friend of mine was pregnant last year and spent a good part of her pregnancy lamenting her husband's complete inability to understand that yes, there was a baby coming, and yes, that made her feel physically like crap. I find the same thing happening all the time in the course of infertility treatment, when DH can't understand why I don't feel cheerful after a shot or an unsuccessful treatment or a drawn out appointment. (He's excited because he knows that if we're at the clinic, we'll go get a cinnamon sprinkle bagel afterward, so maybe it's a conditioned response.) So I guess I have more of the same to look forward to, if we ever do get pregnant.
Last night reminded me that this inability to get where I'm at isn't unique to reproduction, however. DH recently got promoted, and he's been super busy, and I've been working at home a lot, so I try to take care of stuff so he doesn't have to. So last night I had a class, but before I went, I went grocery shopping, cleaned up the house, made dinner, made fresh chocolate ice cream, skipped a shower even though I hadn't washed my hair in 2 + days, and dashed out the door without having the time to wash dishes. I explained this to him, and he said he'd do it.
When I got home, DH hadn't done the dishes, because he'd lost his wallet and was frantically looking for it (it does not matter that I have a designated spot in the house for his wallet, mostly for my own convenience, so I don't have to stand around waiting when it's time to go somewhere). But still, I get it. He was busy looking for the wallet.
Only he still went running. I explained to him that this was frustrating. It was 10 pm and the kitchen was a disaster, and tonight we're making a cheesecake for Thanksgiving. I explained that it seemed like he was making what he wanted to do a priority, but not what I wanted him to do--even though I get why you don't wash dishes when your wallet is missing. I just don't get why you do go running.
Anyway, he apologized for this. And then about two minutes later, he decided the solution was to make the cheesecake. He loves to bake. Unfortunately, it appears he hates doing the dishes so much he's programmed himself to not even hear what I'm saying when the word "dishes" is in the sentence. No interest in cleaning the dishes; every intention of adding to the shit pile for me to clean up the next morning, despite our conversation two minutes back (even in dog years, that's only like 15 minutes).
A few years ago, I went to a conference at which a woman made a joke that many women in the room seemed to get, "What do you do when your husband helps out by folding the towels?" And everyone answered, "You refold them." And I thought, why the hell would you do that? But now I know. You do it because no matter how many times you explain the supreme way you do things, your husband keeps insisting on doing it wrong. If he'd just learn to fold the frickin' towels, we'd all get along.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sex is for Fun
A friend of mine who knew, before she got married, that she and her husband were facing male factor infertility problems, said something refreshing and smart, without seeming to even think about it. She said, "We always knew sex was just for fun."
Fun.
It used to be about fun. It used to be about oh-God-oh-God-my-period-better-start-because-I-can't-have-a-baby-with-this-moron. (Not DH--of course--before that, in younger, dumber years.)
I wish I'd taken that to heart in my own marriage. I wish I hadn't started to think of sex as I did--as proof of failure, of what we couldn't accomplish the "natural" way. It's weird because I never thought about the baby-making capacity of sex for years, and then it became like the main reason to have sex.
No wonder men think of infertility as a cruel, confusing trick. All of a sudden their partners are only willing smack in the middle of a menstrual cycle. It becomes a task, with a purpose, with a designated outcome, and when the outcome eludes you, you square your jaw and become more determined and try harder and worry less about how it makes you feel about your relationship and whether there's any intimacy to the experience.
Then infertility treatment makes it even worse. It's hard to feel romantic after a vaginal ultrasound, a hysteroscopy, an IUI. You get so tired of a roomful of people participating and cheering in what you always pictured to be a private moment. As much as I like the sperm lady's cheerful countenance and Dr. Yoda's silent smile, I certainly didn't expect them--or anyone other than DH--to be there when we conceived a child.
But hey--at least we get sex back. That's the good thing about infertility. It stops making any sense to think about it in terms of babymaking--it only drives you crazy. If you can just let go of the strangers in your business when you're on the table, and remember the bedroom is still yours, it is once again fun.
Fun.
It used to be about fun. It used to be about oh-God-oh-God-my-period-better-start-because-I-can't-have-a-baby-with-this-moron. (Not DH--of course--before that, in younger, dumber years.)
I wish I'd taken that to heart in my own marriage. I wish I hadn't started to think of sex as I did--as proof of failure, of what we couldn't accomplish the "natural" way. It's weird because I never thought about the baby-making capacity of sex for years, and then it became like the main reason to have sex.
No wonder men think of infertility as a cruel, confusing trick. All of a sudden their partners are only willing smack in the middle of a menstrual cycle. It becomes a task, with a purpose, with a designated outcome, and when the outcome eludes you, you square your jaw and become more determined and try harder and worry less about how it makes you feel about your relationship and whether there's any intimacy to the experience.
Then infertility treatment makes it even worse. It's hard to feel romantic after a vaginal ultrasound, a hysteroscopy, an IUI. You get so tired of a roomful of people participating and cheering in what you always pictured to be a private moment. As much as I like the sperm lady's cheerful countenance and Dr. Yoda's silent smile, I certainly didn't expect them--or anyone other than DH--to be there when we conceived a child.
But hey--at least we get sex back. That's the good thing about infertility. It stops making any sense to think about it in terms of babymaking--it only drives you crazy. If you can just let go of the strangers in your business when you're on the table, and remember the bedroom is still yours, it is once again fun.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
If Only Life Were Like TV
I was home alone last night, doing other things with the TV on in the background. (Horrible, horrible habit. Must stop as soon as baby is in utero.) There wasn't anything I much wanted to see on, so I ended up watching a show called Private Practice, which was new to me. As far as I could tell, it was a random assortment of wealthy, horny doctors with no particular medical speciality. They sleep around and have various ethical dilemmas, all of which end with pensive staring or loving hugs or poignant betrayals.
One ethical dilemma focused on infertility--although there was literally not one other case in the practice as part of the storyline, to tell me whether they were all supposed to be reproductive endrocrinologists. I won't get into the details of the story, though, because it was pretty mundane, as story lines on over-the-top prime time dramas go. What I found so fascinating is the way Hollywood makes infertility look--like all you do is yank an egg out, swirl it around in a petri dish with a happy little sperm, pump in back in, and there you go, you're pregnant. Instead of the heavily anestheisized process that is actual egg retrieval, egg retrieval in Hollywood involves a perky blond, sitting up and awake during the process, asking, "Okay, you've got my eggs?" (Whereas I know that every woman asks, based on a sample size of two, is "How many eggs did you get?" desperately and groggily, several minutes after it's over, hoping never to experience the horror of Gonal-F again.)
Then came the fertilization part, which involved everyone who wanted to be there, perky blonde and her parents included, standing around in a room while the doctor dramatically announced, "I'm going to fertilize the egg now." Egg, as in singular. As in no embryologist, just a little needle and a nice little egg. We shoot it up and you're pregnant by the end of last commercial break. Now THAT is a fantasy.
One ethical dilemma focused on infertility--although there was literally not one other case in the practice as part of the storyline, to tell me whether they were all supposed to be reproductive endrocrinologists. I won't get into the details of the story, though, because it was pretty mundane, as story lines on over-the-top prime time dramas go. What I found so fascinating is the way Hollywood makes infertility look--like all you do is yank an egg out, swirl it around in a petri dish with a happy little sperm, pump in back in, and there you go, you're pregnant. Instead of the heavily anestheisized process that is actual egg retrieval, egg retrieval in Hollywood involves a perky blond, sitting up and awake during the process, asking, "Okay, you've got my eggs?" (Whereas I know that every woman asks, based on a sample size of two, is "How many eggs did you get?" desperately and groggily, several minutes after it's over, hoping never to experience the horror of Gonal-F again.)
Then came the fertilization part, which involved everyone who wanted to be there, perky blonde and her parents included, standing around in a room while the doctor dramatically announced, "I'm going to fertilize the egg now." Egg, as in singular. As in no embryologist, just a little needle and a nice little egg. We shoot it up and you're pregnant by the end of last commercial break. Now THAT is a fantasy.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Finally, Something to Be Happy About!
Today I'm happy in a completely non-self-involved way, in a way that has nothing to do with getting pregnant or having babies (other than hoping that the world my babies come into is a nicer one than the world today). I'm happy and hopeful about our President Elect, the distinguished senator from Illinois, the soon to be first African-American president of the United States, the most inspiring presidential candidate of my voting life. It's not me I'm happy for, it's all of us, this country, fertiles and infertiles alike, those who understand and those who don't, those with health insurance and those bearing the brunt of IVF life a punch to the financial gut (with the stock market kicking us while we're down).
But at the same time, I have to acknowledge Proposition 8. I like to go to bed around 10 (left to our own devices, DH and I have been known to fall asleep at 9 pm on a Friday night, while slothing it on the couch), but I find myself trying to prop my eyes open at almost 11, so I can see a turnaround. So I can see that my brother, married to a wonderful man in London, can have his marriage acknowledged here in his home state, just as my parents had their interracial marriage acknowledged 37 years ago (just a few short years after the Supreme Court said that prohibiting interracial marriage was unconstitutional).
I think of infertility, and how when something doesn't go right, I think Isn't it enough already? And then I think of my brother, never able to have a child genetically-related to both he and the love of his life. Not only fighting for parenthood, a battle doubtlessly tougher than my own, but fighting for the very right to have his relationship acknowledged just like everyone else gets.
I am not grateful nearly enough, not nearly enough.
But at the same time, I have to acknowledge Proposition 8. I like to go to bed around 10 (left to our own devices, DH and I have been known to fall asleep at 9 pm on a Friday night, while slothing it on the couch), but I find myself trying to prop my eyes open at almost 11, so I can see a turnaround. So I can see that my brother, married to a wonderful man in London, can have his marriage acknowledged here in his home state, just as my parents had their interracial marriage acknowledged 37 years ago (just a few short years after the Supreme Court said that prohibiting interracial marriage was unconstitutional).
I think of infertility, and how when something doesn't go right, I think Isn't it enough already? And then I think of my brother, never able to have a child genetically-related to both he and the love of his life. Not only fighting for parenthood, a battle doubtlessly tougher than my own, but fighting for the very right to have his relationship acknowledged just like everyone else gets.
I am not grateful nearly enough, not nearly enough.
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