Infertility is following me. Stalking me. Chasing, pursuing, hounding. I can't shake it.
"Oh, some Clomid should get rid of that tireless hunter. No? That didn't work? Ok, how about some incredibly well-timed intimacy coupled with an Instead Cup or two, sprinkled with a dash more of 50 mg Clomid. That should defeat my faceless enemy! Oh, what? That won't work either? WHO AM I FIGHTING HERE? HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED?? EXPECTO PATRONUM, YOU BASTARD!"
So yeah, that's pretty much me every 14th or 15th day past ovulation. Alas, my thoughts meander here.
Last night was Boardwalk Empire night. I really like this show, and I look forward to it every Sunday. Last night, there was a brutal infertility storyline. It probably wasn't even that awful to anyone who isn't currently suffering. But for those of us who are, it was gut-wrenching. I will detail the scene below, but beware of spoilers in case you watch the show!
The show takes place in the prohibition era, and obviously back then RE's were basically unheard of. Well, a housewife pleads with her husband to let her go to Manhattan (from Atlantic City) to see a doctor who can perform surgery to clear her blocked tubes. Her husband insists that if God wanted them to have children, he would find a way. She retorts with if God wanted us to die from [insert early nineteenth centry disease here]
I know this pain. I hate this pain. DH and I were cuddling on the couch while watching, and I'm not sure if he could feel me tense up a bit or something, but he proceeds to rub my hand and arm in a comforting fashion. That was almost more painful than wondering if I'm going to be the 40-something-year-old infertile lady sitting at her dining room table pleading with anyone who will listen for the chance at motherhood. It breaks my heart to know that my husband knows how bad I hurt. He knew, without any reaction from me, that it was a painful reminder of my body's failures.