By: Heather Somaini
We were down to the wire, 4th down at the one yard line, bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded…ok, enough with the sports metaphors.
We tried again. This time with a drug called Brevelle. I was starting to get antsy about our lack of forward progress. I just wanted to “get it done”. And I was feeling the very beginnings of resentment because it wasn’t working. My friend Marni was staying very much on top of our progress and even her enthusiasm seemed to wane. She said one day, “Why don’t you let me know when something good happens so I don’t keep asking?” I totally understood. I was tired of no good news too.
Tere, of course, was in a slightly different mindset because she didn’t see it as our last try. Once again, her number had changed. It was no longer 6, but 8. I’m not sure how we went from 4 to 6 to 8, but we did. When try number 6 was again unsuccessful, I was made privy to the real plan. I relented. She gave a good argument -not in anything she said -but in her actions.
It was becoming more and more evident to me that getting pregnant had taken on a whole different meaning for her. Having children for Tere meant that she was truly connected to the world, the universe. That sounds sort of big and I suppose it is. You see, Tere’s adopted, and although she has an amazing family, she has, like other adopted adults I know, a limited sense of belonging. It’s as if she’s constantly searching for her space in the world. And she was beginning to see having her own biological children as that rope that would tether her to the world in a way she had always been missing. I realized there was no way in the world I could deny her that. I’m not sure how far I would have let her go but honestly it could have been a LONG time.
But since try number 6 didn’t work, Dr. S had us try one more time with that same drug. Try number 7 didn’t work either. Another new drug. Tere was a pin cushion. We were getting tired. We had been at this for over a year. We were slogging through and it wasn’t fun.
When you’re on injectable fertility drugs, the doctors monitor you very carefully because depending on how you respond to the drug, it can over-stimulate the ovaries and cause lots of problems. So month after month we were at Dr. S’s office for Tere to have her blood work taken and ultrasounds done. For two weeks your visits escalate until it feels like you’re there every other day. We would both drive in to Beverly Hills early in the morning for the appointments and then continue on to work.
It became our routine – over and over again. We knew the nurses, phlebotomist and technicians VERY well. I also got to know the parking structure guy really well, too. Apparently I needed to take my frustration out on someone and he was it. There was always something wrong – he didn’t like where we parked or that we parked tandem and wouldn’t leave our keys, and if we were 30 seconds over the allotted time, he would charge us more. It became my entire goal to get in and out in a specific amount of time so that he couldn’t take any glee in charging me $20 for 75 minutes in the doctor’s office. We got into “discussions” about these issues. One even escalated into a “disagreement”.
Tere was mortified. I was not being who I wanted to be every day. It was all starting to take its toll on me. After try number 8 was a bust, Tere convinced me that 9 was a good number. I went along with whatever she wanted at that point. It was the only real option I had.
[Photo Credit: Flickr Member Deep Shot]
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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