Not Trying: Infertility, Childlessness, and Ambivalence

1. Entering Otherhood

( 1 ) ENTERING OTHERHOOD “How’re you doing with your plight?” asked my new fertility doctor when he entered the exam room. While sitting fully clothed awaiting this initial consultation, I looked over the thick files that constituted my fertility history up to that point (it would get much thicker in the coming years). There was much more to the experience than these papers indicated. The files included the results of the examination by an OB/GYN, who palpated my reproductive organs and performed tests for HIV, gonorrhea, and chlamydia, all State of Georgia requirements to receive intrauterine insemination (IUI)—tests not required, of course, for conventional attempts at pregnancy. There were files from the dozen or so IUIs I underwent at a for-profit clinic, a place I eventually left as it became clear that the timing of my cycles invariably failed to match the schedule of the moonlighting doctor. (The procedure is quick and simple: insert sperm-filled syringe into the cervical os and push the plunger. Yet it is a felony in Georgia to perform it oneself—or for a friend or partner to do so.) Several pages documented the extensive blood work and medication regimen accompanying the next three cycles that took place at a nonprofit, women-centered, more technologically outfitted clinic. Ultrasound printouts of multiple, robust, fertility-drug-enhanced egg follicles—one cycle produced nine 1 ( 2 ) NOT TRYING primed eggs—and records describing the healthy, motile, “normal ” donor sperm were attached to brief, scrawled notations attesting to the negative results. The medical staff omitted any mention of the 105 degree fever that spiked half an hour after the last insemination, nor did they record the prescription for emergency high-dosage antibiotics used to kill the apparent infection . I would have to relay this dramatic incident to the new doctor myself. My records did not include the semen tests, blood work, and surgical procedures that my partner went through. His diagnosis of irreversible sterility mentioned on all my medical forms was upsetting enough, but the subsequent discovery (preObamacare ) that we could no longer purchase private health insurance for him as a result was both appalling and absurd. Nowhere among the medical memos could one find any data about my or my partner’s feelings of inadequacy, the disruption of our expected life plan, and the destabilization of our gendered expectations of biological and genetic motherhood and fatherhood. Also missing from the files was my frustration at the paradoxical loss of control over my body at the same time obedient hypercontrol was prescribed. To wit, the daily pattern involved taking my basal body temperature; noting every abdominal twinge; ingesting chaste tree oil, dandelion tinctures, milk thistle caplets, and Clomid tablets (an ovulation drug); inserting progesterone suppositories; and suffering concomitant hot flashes, night sweats, irritability, and—worst of all—dry mouth. On a monthly basis, we dropped everything to race to the clinic when the urine dipstick yielded a “high fertility” readout on my Clearblue-brand ovulation computer. The clinics listed only the dosages for Clomid and progesterone. One could not discern from these documents the cyclical buildup of hope, followed by tearful disappointment and then hope built anew. Despite all the emotional, financial, and medical trials expe- ( 3 ) ENTERING OTHERHOOD rienced over the previous several years of infertility, the doctor’s question bothered me. His choice of the word plight implied victimhood, a label I rejected. Still, his inquiry suggested that he empathized with me, that he was not going to dismiss the psychoemotional and social impact of infertility. His purpose in asking the question may have been to assess my emotional state or to solicit a summary of the relevant tests, treatments, and procedures that I already had completed or tried. I responded, “I don’t really think of it as a plight.” “Well, journey, then,” he replied as he barely suppressed an eye roll and exhaled with exaggerated patience. Although the advice literature suggests to infertile women that they approach treatment as a journey to self-discovery and to well-earned, meant-to-be motherhood, this concept also failed to capture my experience. The daily hassles and discomforts; the monthly highs and lows; the frustrating, painful, time-consuming encounters with harried doctors, bored clinicians, and intrusive medical protocols—all felt less like a journey and more like a slog. The opposing concepts of plight and journey evoke respective images of an unwitting victim...