No, I Hate Kids
It happens more often with each passing year. I meet someone who asks me how long I have been married. “Seven years,” I answer, a wee bit proudly. And, typically, the inquirer responds in either of two ways: “Oh, well, you still have a long way to go. Wait until you’ve been married X number of years.” or “How nice. Do you have children?” While the former eventually segues into another topic, the latter begins the uncomfortable descent into one of the most personal aspects of a person’s life—their fertility.
Or, in my case, the lack thereof.
“No,” I say.
“Oh, do you plan on having any?” the stranger asks.
No, I hate kids, I think. But, instead, I respond, “We’ve been trying.”
“Oh. Oh, well it will happen.”
In four years, it hasn’t yet. But I’m sure you’re right, uh, what was your name again?
Clearly this person who I have just met knows much more about my fertility than I do. Oh, sure, she means well. She even attempts optimism by recanting the story about her aunt’s friend’s mother’s pregnancy following years of infertility.
What she doesn’t know is my story—my history of infertility. In four years I have endured numerous transvaginal ultrasounds, a plethora of blood tests, many shots, four intrauterine inseminations (IUIs), and one devastating ectopic pregnancy. The diagnosis—unexplained infertility. Even the doctors do not know why I have not conceived more than once.
I blame the media to some extent and my high school health teacher. Did you know the average healthy woman in the prime of her fertility only has about a 25 percent chance of conceiving each menstrual cycle? This was news to me. When is an average woman most fertile, you ask? In her early- to mid-20s.
I’m 34. I thought I heard ticking…
So, I have reached a point in my fertility when in vitro fertilization (IVF) is now my only option. My first is scheduled for January 2013.
Hello, my name is Tammy and I am an infertile. Welcome to my journey to parenthood; watch for needles.