I read this great blog this morning that provided a refreshing overview of the many treasure-nuggets of advice beaten into the brains of the empty-uterus crowd:
There's the classic "...have some wine, light a few candles, wink, wink," the slightly kinky, "...try standing on your head afterwards!" and the loathed, "....just relax!"
The fundamental problem with this "well meaning" advice is that it's all crap, it's all unoriginal, and it all seems to point the finger of blame at the poor neurotic woman obsessed with the size of her follicles.
So I thought I'd do everyone a favor by dispelling some of the myths of my infertility. Let's put an end to the speculation. I may not have the exact answer, but god knows I've spent my fair share of time in stirrups coming up with some pretty solid theories.
1. God doesn't like me.
Everyone knows parents have favorites. So if we're all God's children, I must be the red-headed step child. When will I ever be good enough? Perhaps God and I should embark in some family therapy. Better yet, get Doctor Phil in here.
2. I've forgotten that I'm actually on birth control.
This may come as a surprise, but I was sexually active in college. Come to think of it, I was doing more than necking in the parking lot of the Northwood library in high school too. So maybe one of the many forms of birth control I uselessly practiced way back when is still working. Is there a Norplant in one of these arms? Get it out! Give me a body scan and take it out!
3. I don't know The Secret.
I thought I knew The Secret. I watched the movie, endured the weird chime-heavy music. I read the book. But apparently, The Secret is that The Secret is still Secret.
4. I'm being punished for the transgressions of my youth.
I once chased my brother with a knife. And once I lied and ate more candy corn than I had permission to. I peed my pants (leotard, actually) in ballet class when I was four. Seems like a harsh punishment to me, but I suppose I don't make the rules. Plus, God likes me the least (see hypothesis 1).
5. Infertility is a choice.
At least that's what my insurance company keeps insinuating when they deny my claims because my treatments are "optional." I'll tell you what's optional. Piercing my nipples would be optional. Streaking a Red Sox game would be optional. In fact, I think pregnancy would be optional. And go figure, I chose that option. I chose to be pregnant. Yet pregnant I am not. So apparently the "optional" part of that pretty little story snuck right out the window. Scratch this hypothesis. Package it up and send it to Anthem with a tidy little bow.
So perhaps we can now set the speculation aside. I assure you, I like all of these theories much better than the theories suggested by well intentioned but misinformed fertile people. And hey, these are not insurmountable problems. All I really need is to get God, Dr. Phil, Rhonda Byrne, a good gyno, and those stubborn Anthem folks together in one room.
Let's sort this thing out together, shall we?