Any way you serve ’em up, the end result is still the same: I’ve got some damn old eggs. Yes, that’s right, the result of our UIHC infertility appointment today revealed that we have “unexplained infertility” due to the age of my eggs. At this point, we only have a two-percent chance of getting pregnant each month because of my advanced age (I’ll be 37 next month). Yes, that’s right: a TWO-percent chance. Read that and weep, my fine readers. Actually, I’m the only one around here who seems to be weeping. “But,” I protested to the doctor, “what about all these damn celebrities who are having babies in their late 30s and early 40s?! What about Nicole Kidman, for Christ’s sake?!” The doctor said gently to me, in her very kind way, “Well, you don’t read about how they achieve those pregnancies, do you? Is it even their own eggs that they’re using?” Hmm.
Actually, the news wasn’t all bad. I had a vaginal ultrasound, and everything looks great in there. No polyps or fibroids, and I have plenty of eggs in each ovary this cycle: the average the doctors hope to see is 10 eggs total, and I had 20 eggs waiting, with one follicle almost ready to go. So all of that is good news–but the crappy fact remains: this month, it’s officially been one year of trying, with no pregnancy in sight.
The next step they recommended for us was “medication and IUI.” Since we’d like to try a couple months of IUI without using Clomid or any other scary infertility drugs, we’re starting wtih plain old IUI, without medication. That bumps up our chances of achieving pregnancy to a whopping four percent each month. Woo hoo! Much to Mark’s delight, IUI means that he gets to spend some quality time in a sterile masturbation room that “will provide some reading material” (though he should feel free “to bring any other reading materials” that will help him out). After that, the doctors will “wash” his sperm, select the good ones, and inject them into my uterus through a catheter in my cervix. Ah, the romance of it all is killing me.
The next big decision is whether to start with the IUI this month (which means we’d have to go in for it in the next few days) or to wait until next month. One friend, who (sadly) has had too much experience in the world of infertililty treatments, is encouraging me not to wait until next month but to go for the IUI right now. I’m torn: somehow, this all feels like defeat to me. And, as Mark told me this morning, during a very loving and positive spousal-support moment, “You better reach a point where you can accept the fact that we may just have one child.”
On second thought: forget the eggs. I’ll just order a glass of wine instead.