Bun in the Oven: Pregnancy Austin Style

If your brain doesn't run through these things on its own, don't worry. Once the seasoned pros you know find out you're trying to conceive (TTC, the most obnoxious of the plethora of pregnancy acronyms), they will foist upon you their unsolicited advice in abundant heaps. Hell, even women you chance upon on the street who catch a whiff of your striving motherhood will get into the game. They'll share the nastiest, ghastliest horror stories you never wanted to hear. Ad nauseum. It's a curse, and you won't be able to escape it.

But be careful about consulting the dread internet for information and support. Sure, there's a trouserload of, uh, data out there, but precious little is scientific. And man alive, the boards and forums full of whining, hysterical pregnant ladies are a dime a dozen. Do a quick, informal online survey and it's easy to conclude that attempting the big PG will turn you into a neurotic, babbling idiot. For the first few installments of this new feature I'll take on the wonderful world of pregnancy in Austin one issue at a time, starting with the joys of fertility.

The older and more decrepit you get, the more statistically challenging it becomes to conceive, with younger women taking about six months, and older women a year or more. Tried as we might, my husband (let's call him J) and I were unable to get there. I'd never been pregnant before. He, on the other hand, has two kids already. Not the most empowering feeling, learning that you can't just waltz into your bedroom and get knocked up. Also makes you seriously pissed off about all the dough you've wasted over the last twenty years on birth control pills.

Once I got over my disbelief and shock, we discussed our options. We briefly looked into international adoption, but for several reasons we decided against it. (It was an emotional decision, though, and one I'll discuss some other week.) I decided to consult one of Austin's well-known fertility specialists. The first things any good doc will do are diagnostics, diagnostics, and...why not?...more diagnostics. Don't you watch House? I was prodded. I was poked. Over the course of a few weeks, I had to hop on the table and hook into the stirrups more than all my previous paps combined. They looked at my hormone levels. They checked out my ovaries. They took a gander at my uterus. They tested the flow wayyyy up there in my fallopian tubes. (That particular test is called an HSG, and sister, it is uncomfortable as all get-out to have contrast dye plunged into your...well...into you. Even with a Vicodin appetizer, it was a less-than-thrilling experience.)

Don't get me wrong. The doctors, nurses, phlebotomists, X-ray technicians, and so on were very kind, courteous, and sympathetic. But we were required to go through this process to reach our goal. And it had become just that -- a goal. We were no longer creating a beautiful product of our undying love. We were getting pregnant already damnit! I stopped counting, ohhh, about the 150th time I was told to "just relax," "grab a good bottle of wine and have a romantic evening," or "try not to think about it...let nature take its course." Uh, yeah, we'd done all of those things and more. We were grown-ups. Old grown-ups. We knew how to make a baby. It wasn't happening.

While all this was going on, J and I discussed our options. And were still, of course, TTC, fruitless as that was due to the additional stress. Did we want to go so far as In-Vitro Fertilization if that was required for possible conception? Before we even visited the fertility center, I voiced my total opposition to IVF because it's very expensive ($10,000 a pop, with an estimated $35,000 to achieve a successful cycle) and has not-so-great odds (about 20% each round). Okay, then what? Ultimately, the doc couldn't point to anything specifically wrong with me (not an uncommon diagnosis), so he recommended a round of Clomid (a drug that indirectly stimulates your ovaries) and Intrauterine Insemination. IUI. The turkey-baster treatment. Using J's sperm because his count was off the freakin' chart. Of course. It wasn't terribly expensive (around $500), and it was our best shot.

Clomid made me a little crazy and gave me hot flashes for five days straight, but it was tolerable. My ovaries went into overdrive. That hurt just a bit. Taking an ovulation test at the first possible moment after stopping Clomid was extraordinarily stressful. I screwed up (the stupid thing was digital. Who makes a digital, pee-on-a-stick test?), and had a breakdown in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, inconsolably weeping. I tried again later that day...and got the happy face! Bright and early the next morning, I toted J's swimmers to the lab, dropped 'em off, and we returned a few hours later for the big moment. The doc made the precious deposit, smacked me on the knee with his clipboard, and wished us luck.

And luck we had. I got pregnant the very first go. With only one baby -- dodged a big bullet there. So. The moment had arrived. We reached our goal. Time to finally relax? Time to celebrate? Uh, yeah, but also time to worry, fret, and puke. More on my first trimester blues next week.