Another period. Another period of time. Another period of menstrual cramps. Another period of grief, heartache and loss. Another period of infertility. As I stared into the toilet, my heart plummeted into my belly. I had hoped that this month would be different. I wanted to be that girl who said, “Whoops, guess what honey? We’re pregnant!” Instead, I was the girl who was having scheduled sex, holding my legs over my head in hopes that just one sperm would decide to make love to one little egg. I had wasted countless pregnancy tests only to see the all too familiar solitary line. That single line mocked me as thought to say, “Yes, there is just one of you not two.” My romantic version of getting pregnant was being flushed down the toilet along with the physically and emotionally painful reminder that I was not going to be having a baby in nine months.
It’s strange how things start out as a plan and then become a devastation. Although I had been married at the age of 24, my husband and I had decided to wait to have children. We were smart. We were mature. We wanted time together to enjoy marriage before we added another being into the mix. In addition, we were medical students with residency on the horizon. Grueling hours studying, rounding, and then studying some more just didn’t seem like ideal parenting times. And, although we were right about our circumstances not being the best for bringing a child into the mix, we didn’t anticipate that by waiting we might be giving up our ability to ever have children.
We had a plan. We wanted to be great parents. We wanted to have enough free time to raise our own baby. We wanted a support system. We wanted to wait for the ideal time. Unfortunately for us, the ideal time came and went. For a while, we said that we wouldn’t necessarily “try,” but we would let nature take its course. For those months, I waited expectantly for a missed period only to be disappointed by cramps, tampons, and panty liners. Then, we decided that we needed to take things seriously…make a schedule…map my cycles, etc.etc. We were doctors, by golly, who better to know the menstrual cycle!
Although we were connoisseurs of the menstrual cycle, we were not its master. Our planning, and scheduling, and mandatory sex just didn’t seem to make a difference. We weren’t worried quite yet…but maybe just a little.