This weekend, I have decided to allow myself to be depressed about my infertility, and I have allowed myself to think of myself as infertile. We’re nearing three years without birth control– and actually, if I’m really thinking about it, you might add a month or two where we were careless (or thought we were careless but were actually not in danger of being pregnant, not even a little bit). When I remember what it felt like to be 34 and trying to have a child, it felt like good timing, like I was just squeaking in under the geriatric pregnancy radar, but now I’m 37, and in seven months, I will be 38, and we have been trying for three years with no success. I can look at other people’s blogs, and I see what looks like progress– TSH levels lowering, natural ovulation happening occasionally– and I think it’s just a matter of time before one of those fertilized eggs sticks. And if I’m being rational, I can see progress for me too. I waited to go to the doctor until just this last summer, where I found out that I have significant thyroid antibodies floating around in my blood, and that when I take fake thyroid, my phone can predict my cycle. And I’ve found out that it predicts a too-short cycle with a too-short luteal phase, that I need to find a way to prolong the LP, if I’m ovulating, which I don’t think I am. My temperatures are usually low with a higher spike or two, but nothing consistent, and nothing sustained. My cycle is, like, 24 days long. So I’m taking Vitex and Maca and vitamin b6 and feverfew (for headaches but the internet tells me that it used to be used for infertility) and a multivitamin and folic acid and levothyroxine, and I’m seeing an acupuncturist, and I’m smearing progesterone cream on any thin skin that hasn’t seen progesterone cream on it. My insurance does not cover fertility treatment. I have enough money in savings to pay for acupuncture, and that is it.

And I know a lot of what I want to write about is really repetitive because it’s essentially the same story every month. I want to be pregnant, and then I think we may or may not have missed the window, which either gives me hope or makes me feel exasperated, depending, and then I wait it out and sometimes remember to test my urine for ovulation, but more often forget, and then it’s a couple of weeks later, and I am bleeding again. The blood does not seem like real menstruation, by the way. It’s spotting, and then it’s bleeding, and then it’s spotting again. Since I’ve been on thyroid, I have not soaked a tampon or a pad. I’d apologize about too much information, but this blog is about infertility, which is all blood and jizz, blood and jizz. And awkward sex.

Speaking of awkward sex, I want to write about sex when trying to conceive. People warn you about it, and people joke about it, and everything they say is true– sex that is focused on sperm and a bathroom science lab is not that much fun. When I announced on my other blog that we had decided to toss the birth control, someone commented “Sex is more fun that way, anyway” and I thought, what are you, 16 years old? Do you have any idea how much less fun sex is when underneath any impulse to Do It is fear and insecurity and failure lurking? In the first couple of months of trying, the sex has depth. There is life-creation in the embrace, and you (meaning I) look at your partner as a parent, as someone you trust to create a whole new person who will forever link your families together. That’s some beautiful sex right there. And then flash forward three years, and it’s all about 2g of pre-seed lube in a syringe thing (that makes being in the mood for it completely moot, thank christ forreal) and your vagina and its associated reproductive parts are about as alluring as an IKEA dresser and an allen wrench and no discernible instructions.

Two months ago, we were some friends’ house to play games and drink. Everyone there except my husband and me is gay– a lesbian couple, and a gay couple, and I suppose you could argue that they deal with infertility every day, but that would be silly. I’d had two glasses of wine, and we were standing outside so that the lesbians could smoke cigarettes. And J leans over with her cigarette and asks if I want a drag (which I do, which I take) and then immediately asks if I’m pregnant. Then she apologizes for asking and says it’s her intuition and that she often senses these things. I say that no, there is no way I’m pregnant because I have recently started my period, which is why I’ll have a second glass of wine and take one drag from her cigarette. Then M says that if I really want to know the trick to pregnancy, it’s being exposed to lots and lots of cum. She tells me that when she was married to a man, she got pregnant whenever she sneezed– when she was menstruating and when she wasn’t and at the oddest times and even when they were using a diaphragm and when she was on the pill. Then she explains to me that she’s a witch, that I need to get a red candle and light it in the bedroom. Then she rubs my general uterine area and tells me that she’s blessing my womb.

I’ll take what I can get, right? If she wants to bless my womb with magic, then I’m in. I’m in agreement. Hook up the blessings because I’ll take whatever herb, and I’ll work out every day and quit coffee and quit drinking and meditate on the yellow warm light of my womb because why not? But at the same time, I’m thinking that maybe telling someone to be exposed to more cum as the answer for infertility woes is not the most compassionate response. Then J tops it and tells me that at 37, my body is heading toward menopause and I’m about to go through hormonal purgatory anyway.

Last night, we went to my brother in law’s birthday dinner. My sister in law has four children– two sets of twins. She shoots from both ovaries every month. She has had a couple of abortions because she, too, gets pregnant even while on birth control. After her second set of twins, she had a tubal ligation because she just couldn’t stop getting pregnant. My BIL’s friend was there with his wife, who has given birth to two daughters almost one year apart. My SIL sees the baby and turns to me and says, “Doesn’t looking at babies make you want to have one?” And the truth is no, looking at babies does not make me want to have one, and then I immediately wonder if this is the problem. That baby at dinner last night has empty shark eyes, and I am not exaggerating. She’s a sullen little bundle of no personality, and maybe she’s going to grow up to have some light in her eyes, but who knows? Another friend of mine had a baby on my birthday last year, and I swear to God, when I look at his pictures on facebook, the kid looks like a complete dick. When I look at those babies, I think about how odd it must be to give birth to a complete stranger. What a roll of the dice. Furthermore, one of my SIL’s kids is severely autistic, and she says she’s sure that the reason for his autism is her auto-immune disorder. Inflammation. And then I think about thyroid antibodies and how that’s evidence of an autoimmune disorder, and I wonder if my body is killing my eggs before they have a chance to grow. And I wonder how I would handle having a child with such severe disabilities.

To top off the evening, our waitress was pregnant. My husband used to work with her, and remarked that she’d gained some winter weight (“And it’s beautiful on you ha ha ha!”) and she replied that the pregnancy was definitely not planned; it was a complete shock, but not an unwelcome one, and they are just so damn excited.

Three years of infertility. Quite possibly a lifetime of infertility. What kind of adult life will I have without parenthood as a part of it? When do we get to give up and have sex again like people who love each other?