I arrive at the fertility clinic just before 7 a.m. for what feels like the “Infertile Rush Hour”: a flurry of women dashing from the elevator to the clinic to check in for their daily blood tests, ultrasounds, and consultations with the doctor.
Instead of joining the crowd, I head in the opposite direction, opting to sign up for blood work first since it’s the line that moves the fastest. I have a history of fainting during these tests if I don’t lie down, but with the countless tests ahead of me and the busy nurse attending to many women, I decide to try sitting up, like a regular person.
“Wait!” I call out just before the needle goes in. “I think I need to lie back. I’m so sorry.” She graciously adjusts the chair and points to a red button on the wall. “This is the fainting button,” she explains. “If you pass out, I push it, and another nurse will come running.”
“Seriously?” I ask, a smile creeping onto my face.
“Yep.”
We share a laugh, and I appreciate the humor in the situation — it reassures me that perhaps I’m not the worst patient they deal with. Maybe just the second worst. I resolve to avoid needing that button.
Next, I head to the ultrasound waiting area, where my number, 33, is called. As I step into a smaller room, I can’t help but think about how this nurse has already seen 33 vaginas before 9 a.m. All I’ve done today is have a coffee and not pass out during my blood test. As I settle into the stirrups, I wonder how many times she has seen mine. Has it been 6? 7? 10? I can’t remember and hope it’s not something that stands out in her memory.
“What if my vagina doesn’t look like everyone else’s?” I panic when I meet my partner, Jake, in the doctor’s office. “What if it’s particularly ugly?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he reassures me, which feels oddly romantic.
After our consultation, we meet with a nurse to discuss hormone injections for my egg retrieval process, known as stimulation or “stims” on fertility sites. She is incredibly kind and patient as she guides us through preparing the needle and administering the injection. Jake asks questions, jotting down notes, while I awkwardly lift my dress to show the nurse where to inject — losing even more of my dignity. I’m overwhelmed by the thought that $4,000 is going into my body, and it won’t even improve my appearance; in fact, it might make it worse!
The hormones are wreaking havoc on my emotions. I’m crampy, my rear end aches, I have a headache that’s impervious to over-the-counter meds, and I feel like I have a severe flu. To distract myself, I turn on Netflix and start watching a show about Rory, a character full of potential and possibilities. I break down and cry, soaking my cat who’s curled up on my lap, feeling a mix of emotions about beginnings and futures. Rory has a world of opportunities ahead of her, while I feel time slipping away as I lie on the bathroom floor, nauseous and weeping, worrying about how a future baby might impact the writing career I haven’t yet achieved.
Reflecting on my mother’s battle with cancer, I remember her grace, humor, and strength until the very end. I aspire to emulate her resilience in the face of hardship, wishing to navigate my struggles with emotional poise. But in truth, my tears and throbbing head feel anything but dignified. I find myself calling Jake at work, crying or burying my face in our dog’s fur. I feel like I’m failing to live up to my mother’s incredible character.
“Seriously? I faced cancer, and you can’t handle this? Making a baby?!” I imagine her saying as I sob.
At a family dinner with my sweet 11-year-old niece, she senses my anxiety and takes my hand. “You’re alive, Aunty Lily. Just enjoy it.”
Is it really as simple as that? I hold onto her words, thinking about my nieces and the joy they bring me. I reflect on how fortunate I am to be their aunt, to have a loving family, and a best friend who checks in on me daily. I also think about Jake and his unwavering patience. He takes time during his busy schedule to talk to me when I’m struggling and even massages my sore spots after the injections.
We are alive, and we should cherish this moment together, even amidst the chaos of tests and treatments. Someday, we’ll look back on this journey — the needles, the procedures — and remember how we faced it as a team. Just as we navigated challenges like my mother’s passing and other life hurdles, we will laugh about these experiences, including the time Jake had to administer an injection to my rear end.
This will be part of our story, one we’ll share with our future children, who might remark, “Dad, you had to give Mom needles in her butt? Gross.”