I’m one of those women struggling with infertility issues. One: my age. I’m no spring chicken. Two: endometriosis — I was treated for that two years ago after suffering for over a year with crazy painful periods, and after my husband and I had been trying for more than six months. Three, high FSH (follicle-stimulating hormone) levels — it’s taking more hormones to kick-start my ovaries and get them working.
When I was little, my rendition of “house” always included pretending I was a single mother struggling to make ends meet. I’m not sure if my eight-year-old self could foresee the future, or if I was just making do with the fact that I didn’t ever have a boy to play my “husband.” I dabbled in dating as a teenager. By “dabble” I mean my relationships never lasted more than three months and most were more like a few days. I just never had much interest in men (or women, for that matter), sexually speaking.
For the past eight years I have been battling severe endometriosis. Three surgeries, two rounds of medical menopause, and four doctors later: I am pregnant. But getting here wasn’t easy. Because of my endometriosis it was automatically assumed that I would have a difficult time getting pregnant and therefore my doctor wanted to put me on Clomid. Given that I had just gotten over another round of menopause-inducing hormones, I wasn’t about to add more synthetic hormones to the mix. So I refused the prescription and decided to try to conceive for at least six months before taking a serious fertility drug.
“Oh, just CHILL OUT and you’ll be pregnant in no time!” Right? Right? Wrong.
After three frustrating years, many visits to fertility clinics that ultimately resulted in nothing, we found ourselves pregnant in the late Spring of 2009. Aside from the regular baby chaos, everything has gone extremely well. Except for one thing: sex. I can’t have it.