A guest post by K.C. Ott
Several months have passed and still no baby. Not even a baby in sight; nothing growing in your womb, just an empty heart and defeated soul. It’s time to start taking matters into your own hands, swallowing your pride you schedule an appointment with your OB provider. If anyone can work magic it has to be her. After all, she catches babies on a daily basis and helps families grow, she has to be capable of providing you with the same happiness.
The day of the visit comes and you’ve already done your research and spoken with different friends for their suggestions. Hell, Web MD has bestowed enough knowledge in you that you feel competent enough to tell the doctor exactly what you need. Yet, if you did know what you needed you wouldn’t be sitting where you’re at. Clad in a hospital gown with your feet in the stirrups letting all lady parts hang out you try to patiently wait for the doctor to come in. Thoughts of your bikini shave run thru your head as you listen to the clock tick. “What the hell is taking so long?” you wonder, “Doesn’t she know I’m here because I desperately need her help to make a baby.” The doctor finally comes in and greets you with a giant smile, if only you could address her the same. Before she can even get the first sentence of “What seems to be….(wrong)” you instantly break down in gut wrenching sobs. “I can’t….I can’t….,” luckily she has already read the notes. After consoling you, she pulls out that damn speculum everyone loves to inspect your insides. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary the doctor starts discussing a treatment plan of a couple medications. Giving you full details and instructions of each med, when to take them and the expected side effects and realistic expectations. “Hand me the damn prescriptions so I can run out of here,” you think. As she talks further in depth your head drifts off into baby land and how cute your unborn child is going to be.
Running out of the physician’s office you drive directly to the pharmacy to get your stock of baby goodies. Medications, ovulation test kits, and pregnancy tests in hand you feel fully equipped to make this baby thing happen. The idea of starving for the week only crosses your mind for a split second as your bill totals your weekly grocery budget. Now, to get home and start taking the meds, set up your game plan and hop on the husband. Hope is restored, that bitch Aunt Flow is going to be sent packing!
The color coded calendar that appears on the fridge month after month has now gained symbols for each medication. You sit your husband down, pacing in front of him and instruct him of his duties like a drill sergeant , placing him on restrictions of when and where he can get off. He sure as hell better not consider masturbating! You follow him around like a private eye, sneaking into the bathroom to make sure he’s not wasting your baby batter down the drain during one of his hot showers. His ass will be grass as you’ve already explained to him that the doctor informed you how sperm count can be affected by too much or too little sex.
This is the seventh month of trying, medications in full swing. Intercourse is now a job, losing all spontaneity. He is no longer allowed to choose a position. It’s simple, he is to be on top, drop his load as you happily take his deposit and be done. You really don’t care if he enjoys the sex, just as long as he gets off and gives you what you want….a baby.
Unquestionably so, he doesn’t end up giving you what you want though he tried, as you find a murder scene in your underwear weeks later. The feeling of despair revisits as you remind yourself the doctor said the medications may take a few months to actually work. So again, you chug along with the same monthly routine as the month’s past continuing to repeat to yourself that God has a plan as you waive your morals bargaining with the Devil.
A couple more months pass and you begin to realize you’ve been at this as long as it takes to make and have a baby. Cursing your uterus to get her shit together. As you struggle with the emotions flooding in the phone rings and its your best friend telling you she just welcomed her healthy baby girl and wants you to come visit. What a fucking bitch! She’s your best friend so reluctantly you pay her the deserved visit. She knows you well enough that even though you’re smiling when you walk through her hospital door there’s a thousand tears hiding behind it. She offers the baby for you to snuggle. Tears burst out of your eyes like a waterfall as you try to give her a congratulatory hug. The hug becomes a grasp of truth, this may never be you. She lets you cuddle the baby as long as you choose, your husband having to drag you out of the hospital. Wanting to cling to the doors, “This should be me…”
Back home you find your paperwork as you know your time is ticking. The doctor gave you a six months prescription and you’re down to only three months left. “I better make this count….”
Stay tuned for part 3 of Conception Battles- The Untold Story