A guest post by K.C. Ott
Your six month prescription from the doctor is coming to an end, as is every hope of ever having a baby. You were certain your doctor would be able to fulfill your dream. As you sit in her office and wait to discuss how your body has failed you, the doctor walks in greeting you with yet another smile. “How can the bitch smile,” you wonder. It’s taking every ounce of strength to not let the faucet of tears turn on. The appointment was scheduled to discuss further options, yet at this point you’re ready to give up. Who the hell wants a baby anyways? Someone to wake you up every three hours to eat in the middle of the night, someone to take care of changing shitty diapers, someone to spend every extra dollar made on, someone to love. Damning your brain that it took you there, you try to come back to earth. That’s all you want is a baby to love. The doctor recommends a fertility specialist, “You mean making a baby in a petri dish and turkey basting it into me,” you ask. Straight faced the doctor replies, “Not quite like that….lets set up the appointment.”
Two weeks later you find yourself, with your husband, in the specialist’s office. Fancy awards, degrees and certifications plaster his office walls, not to mention the thousands of baby pictures staring at you. For fuck sake, if all the baby pictures don’t make you want to off yourself nothing will. Your husband squeezes your hand and flashes you a nervous smile. A small, round man with hair that appears to resemble a toupee walks in and sits down. He reviews your history, previous medications you’ve tried, and starts implementing a game plan. This game plan is no longer for amateurs; he’s taking it straight to the fucking big leagues. Talking daily ultrasounds, weekly blood work, injectable medications, and signing waivers…in case of…multiples! He’s not just talking twins either, he’s throwing out triplets and a quadruplet like it’s no big deal. You want to stop him and tell him not to get too carried away but then remember he’s done this before. Then he discusses further risks: ovarian hyper stimulation syndrome, ovarian torsion or rupture, ectopic pregnancy. The list doesn’t scare you; he doesn’t realize you’re at the point of selling your soul for a baby! God damn it, all you want is a BABY! As you sign the waivers he explains he’ll be in frequent touch via telephone when your “numbers reach where they need to be”. And if necessary, taking the next step and trying to do IVF (In Vitro Fertilization).
Your husband and you head to the pharmacy with your stack of prescriptions. Ovulation test kits, pregnancy tests, medications, needles, and Aunt Flow supplies, just in case. But that bitch better not show face! After hearing the total of everything your husband damn near passes out. When getting into the car he finally loses it, “What the fuck….you just spent half of our mortgage on this shit!” He rants on, “…none of this is covered by insurance, remember the ultrasounds cost too, and for what,” smacking the driving wheel, “for fucking NOTHING!” He realizes what he has said but it’s too late as you lose it yourself and burst into tears. “Do you think I chose this fucking life!?” The drive home one could hear a pin drop, and when you arrive home you lock yourself away in your room with your crayons, calendar and a box of Kleenex. There won’t be a baby making session tonight, you’re only burying your face in your pillow to hide the sobs.
A month after being on the medications and no success, you begin to realize how pathetic you’ve let life become. Dragging your husband to the hospital at five in the morning daily for the ultra-sonographer to give you the same disappointing answer, running home from work to be precisely on time to stab yourself with injections at six in the evening, having sex every other day like it’s a second job, and screaming matches with someone, even plants, due to the medications making you a raging lunatic. Your husband used to think you’re fun, now you’re almost positive he thinks you’re a psychotic bitch.
Another month passes, and another one. It’s amazing your husband hasn’t served you divorce papers yet. Or that you haven’t filed bankruptcy as you continue to dwindle your savings to a frightening amount. To make it even worse, the doctor calls to explain to you that you’re not an IVF candidate to possibly start considering adoption. However, he wants you to continue the regime because there is still a “chance”. A fucking chance!!!
You’ve given up all hope, sobbing on a daily basis as you see babies everywhere. When friends call to announce their happy news you hang up immediately because you can no longer pretend to be excited for them. Besides they’re all whores, how else could one be impregnated so easily?
The fourth months’ end rolls around and you pull out the infamous stick to piss on. With expectations in the gutter you do your part and set it on the bathroom counter. Five minutes later, you come back to throw it away. What.The.Fuck!? Shining like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, two lines! This is some sort of sick fucking joke, it has to be, you think. Nonetheless you can’t contain your elation! Squealing like a pig being slaughtered so loudly your husband hears you from outside. Running in he finds you in a heaping mess. Smiling, crying, babbling like a baby and jumping around. He’s certain he’s going to be taking you to the closest psychiatric hospital. “This bitch has damn near lost it,” he thinks. He sees it at the same moment you wave it in his face and jump into his arms. Barely understanding you, he grabs your hand to hold it still to see and finally grasps what all the commotion is about. Two lines. “You’re going to be a daddy,” you cry, “I’m pregnant.”
Wrapping into each other’s arms, as you both laugh until you cry. Finally everything seems worth it: the fights, tears, appointments, thousands of dollars spent, disappointment, and heartache. It all instantly seems part of the past as you can now look forward to the future. Everything you’ve ever wanted you now carry inside of you. Within nine months you’ll be holding your only dream, a baby. “What could be more perfect than God’s precious gift,” you wonder. Then you answer yourself, “absolutely nothing.”