Getting off the infertility-treatment treadmill

Every day I see them, wedged between the mustard and half-empty jar of capers in my refrigerator. They’re the shots that could make me pregnant.

But each morning, as I grab the coffee creamer or the strawberry jam, I bypass the Follistim, a follicle-stimulating hormone that can induce ovulation. The shots don't expire until next October, so I still have time. But I’m never going to use those shots. I’m through with fertility treatments.

When my husband, Steve, and I started trying to get pregnant more than two years ago, I was 34 and Steve was 33. We figured my fertility was like a dammed-up river, held at bay for 15 years by birth-control pills. We had no reason to believe otherwise.

Of course, we'd heard the stories about other couples who’d had trouble conceiving. One acquaintance quit her job to focus on getting pregnant, cashing out her 401K to fund three rounds of in vitro fertilization (IVF). Another friend, who’d gotten lucky with just one round of fertility drugs, advised us to figure out our emotional and financial limits in advance — and stick to them, no matter how intense things got.

We didn’t honestly think it would get that far. I was still relatively young and “sickeningly healthy,” according to my gynecologist. But heeding my friend’s advice, we agreed that we’d draw the line at IVF — too expensive, no guarantee of success.

Looking back, I realize just how naive we were. We knew next to nothing about luteal phases, hip-lifting pillows and spermwashing. And we had no idea how tough things would get.

Trying ... and waiting
Three months passed with no luck. Our friends laughed at our impatience: “Your body's just adjusting,” they said. “Give it at least a year before you start worrying.”

Six months went by. I started poking around the Internet, turning to message boards and blogs written by other infertile women. I learned some tips, and Steve and I grew more strategic in our efforts — charting cycles, trying to plan my most fertile days. But still, my body, which had never failed me before, stayed resolutely pregnancy-free.

“Take a vacation,” friends advised. We went to Hawaii. Nothing.

“Relax,” my mother said. I took up yoga and started visiting an acupuncturist. No dice.

After 15 months, we decided that something was wrong. I went back to the Internet, typed in “fertility clinics” and got pages and pages of results. Clearly, this was big business.

Interactive Baby-making by the numbers: Stats on women in the workplace, the rate of assisted reproduction, numbers of twins and triplets, and much more.

We chose a facility near our house and went to our first appointment. The nurse practitioner assigned to us had an impressive track record, and the first steps seemed proactive, not intrusive. I would get a full workup and Steve would get his sperm tested to see where the problem was. I felt relieved, triumphant over my stubborn, unyielding body.

That feeling didn't last long. Our tests revealed that Steve was A-OK, and that due to lack of regular ovulation, I was the faulty model.

This news devastated me. I felt ashamed. Old. Worthless. My body, which was made to conceive, carry, give birth to and feed a child, just didn’t work correctly, and we didn’t know why.

I started dropping hints to Steve that he should fly the coop, find a younger woman who could give him the family he wanted. To his credit, he was aghast — and insulted — by my suggestions.

“I don't just want a family — I want a family with you,” he said. “Plus, what if the problem was on my end?”

A little nudge from science
Based on our results, our nurse suggested we start where lots of infertility newbies start: Clomid. The ovulation-inducing drug, which is administered orally and is relatively inexpensive, would also help our nurse determine what shape my ovaries were in. It seemed low-tech and not much like a “fertility treatment” at all — just a little nudge from science.

But Clomid was no picnic. I had constant headaches, intermittent nausea and dizzying mood swings. Steve joked that there should be a safe house for Clomid husbands.

Fitting in the appointments that went along with fertility drugs was a challenge, too. As a freelance editor, I’d been able to handle the midday blood tests or the last-minute ultrasounds. But then I accepted a full-time position at MSNBC.com, and I was reluctant to reveal too much about our efforts to get pregnant to my new boss and colleagues. It was too personal, this business with my faulty reproductive system. And work was my only escape from the whole disappointing process — and the only place where hard work seemed to net tangible results.

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