After almost 2 years of marriage and almost 2 and a half years free of birth control, we realised something wasn’t quite right.
I’m aware that different people take different lengths of time to conceive (my own mother took 7 years to conceive my eldest brother), however I am a person that listens to her gut more than is probably wise, but on this occasion I knew I should listen carefully and go to the doctor.
However, when it came to it, I resisted. Occasionally I have this resistance in me where I want to be 19 again; I don’t want to deal with serious and boring adult issues. I wanted my biggest problem to be how I was going to fund another Saturday night out or how I could get my self tan as dark as possible.
I knew if we went to the doctor we would have to face the harsh reality that I already knew deep inside myself: I couldn’t have a baby.
Dave pestered me and pestered me and eventually I gave in. We met with a lovely doctor who asked us some basic questions and gave us some initial tests, which were pretty satisfactory, however due to the length of time we had been trying to get pregnant we had an automatic referral to the fertility clinic. And so the real life issues had begun…..
We were pretty surprised to receive our first appointment within a couple of months and so we trudged along to the dreaded fertility clinic.
The first fear we had is that we would meet someone we knew.
I don’t know if it’s because Dave is from Portsoy, or just because he’s Dave, but he literally meets someone EVERYWHERE we go. Once on a flight to Tenerife I realised after about an hour that Dave still hadn’t come back from the toilet, so turned round to find him chatting to a family from Portsoy. After another half an hour had gone past I looked round again to find he’d changed position and was chatting to ANOTHER family from Portsoy.
So the odds of us meeting someone Dave knew were pretty high, and for some reason we felt we needed to be discreet, walk in the shadows.
We met with a lovely consultant doctor who asked us every question under the sun about our marriage, previous relationships, medical history etc and asked us to sign a parental responsibility form. This is simply to say that if they are going to help you have a baby, they need to be satisfied that you will make good parents. Strange, I don’t recall any of my friends telling me they had to sign this right before they popped their babies out in the labour ward. And so my rage had begun…….
After a lot more questions, some blood tests and a fantastically unpleasant internal ultrasound to confirm that I actually had the requisite hardware required to make a baby, we were sent on our merry way with an appointment scheduled for a Hycosy (hystero-salpingo contrast sonography), another lovely sounding procedure to check my fallopian tubes were clear. See my next blog post to read about that experience.