Recently, I arrived at one of the many appointments that have become a part of my
life over the past four years. I drove a half hour out of my way for a blood draw that
would only take approximately 2 minutes. The earliest appointment I could schedule
was at 7:45, the exact same time that I was to be at work. In an effort to carry on my
normal existence and avoid any questions about why I would be late, I arrived 45
minutes early. I hoped that they could squeeze me in as they had done on past
occasions and I would be able to make it in to work on time. I was the only person in
the waiting room when I arrived and took a seat on the stiff tan sofa. I sat by myself
for the first half hour listening to the chit-chat of the nurses behind the counter.
Eventually, several other women came in and took a seat on the surrounding cold
furniture. These patients were greeted by name and they made pleasant small talk
with the nurses. I thumbed through a decorating magazine for the seventh time. Only
a few short minutes after arriving, the other women were ushered to the back for their
tests. I made one more go of it with the magazine. My hands became sweaty as 7:45
came and went, as the other women skipped out of the office and off to their cars
and their lives. I called work to notify them that I would be late and to find someone to
cover my 5th grade class. The office began to fill and still I sat on the couch,
somehow sinking through the firm, leather skin and into the soft center.
I have heard people say that infertility becomes your life, that it fills it completely up
and takes it over, leaving room for nothing else. I disagree. Infertility isn’t life at all. It
is one big waiting room. It is a space between the life you were living before you
decided to get pregnant and the life that is out of reach. People come in and leave,
barely noticing that you were there when they arrived and are still there as they
leave. I have been waiting through other women’s weddings, pregnancies, baby
showers, births, and first birthday parties. With each new celebrated moment I feel a
slight, yet increasingly tugging urge to scratch the happy mothers’ eyes out. I sit at
the lunch table at work staring into space as everyone talks about their little darlings.
Their fucking little bundles of joy. I keep my mouth full to stifle the urge to relate to
their stories by discussing my dogs. As a result I spend most of my free time at work
with my single friends who discuss their nights out, the boys they are meeting. I listen
to them debate about whether or not they should spend money on a new iPod, while I
privately debate over how I am going to scrape up the next $15,000 to try again.
It has been four years since I first made the exciting decision to change my life and
move on to the next step. I decided that I was done living for myself and wanted to
live for someone else. Just like that, I traded in my fun carefree lifestyle for that of
someone on a mission. No more drinking. I changed my diet, and started taking
vitamins. I was optimistic that everything would work out. I went to sleep at night
dreaming of my wonderful life as a mother, though I often worried that maybe I was
not ready. My mother told me that no one ever feels completely ready. I guess she
hadn’t ever spoken to someone who had been trying for four years. Someone who
put all of her money and energy into something that will not work.
Although I began this process with complete faith and dedication, I’ve been sitting in
this waiting room for the past four years with sweaty hands and clenched teeth and I
am starting to wonder if it is time to walk out. There have been moments of hope and
moments of complete devastation, but most of the time I have just been sitting here
unable to do anything about it. I can still remember all of the things that I wanted and
my dream of holding a soft warm baby, my dream of creating a person who is the
result of my husband’s and my love. One of the reasons I fell in love with my husband
in the first place was because I knew he would be such a wonderful father. This is the
same husband who I don’t even touch anymore because it only reminds me of the
times before. The times before I felt so denied and isolated. The times before I knew
it would be nothing short of a miracle of modern science for me to conceive. I’ve
stopped dreaming of all of the things I would do for and with my child. I have stopped
dreaming of having a family. I don’t think about those things anymore. I just think
about what the next procedure will be, how long it will be before I can afford it. I think
of anything to try to keep the hope in my heart. And I wait for the next pregnancy test.
At approximately 8:15, I was finally called into the office. I sat in the familiar green
vinyl chair with my right arm out. The nurse gave me a ball to squeeze and warned
me that there would be a small prick. I gave an indiscernible nod to the information
that I have heard a hundred times. She said, “Oh! Today’s a big day! Good luck!” I
gave another small nod. Luck has nothing to do with it; neither does love, desire, or
money.
When I left, I got into my car and headed to work. I walked in and pretended that
everything was normal. I’m getting good at that. I heard my cell phone ring at lunch
time, but I decided to listen to the banal ramblings about the previous weekend’s
escapades with the “boys” at the bar. Later as I sat in my room alone, I listened to my
message. The pregnancy test was negative. Again.
life over the past four years. I drove a half hour out of my way for a blood draw that
would only take approximately 2 minutes. The earliest appointment I could schedule
was at 7:45, the exact same time that I was to be at work. In an effort to carry on my
normal existence and avoid any questions about why I would be late, I arrived 45
minutes early. I hoped that they could squeeze me in as they had done on past
occasions and I would be able to make it in to work on time. I was the only person in
the waiting room when I arrived and took a seat on the stiff tan sofa. I sat by myself
for the first half hour listening to the chit-chat of the nurses behind the counter.
Eventually, several other women came in and took a seat on the surrounding cold
furniture. These patients were greeted by name and they made pleasant small talk
with the nurses. I thumbed through a decorating magazine for the seventh time. Only
a few short minutes after arriving, the other women were ushered to the back for their
tests. I made one more go of it with the magazine. My hands became sweaty as 7:45
came and went, as the other women skipped out of the office and off to their cars
and their lives. I called work to notify them that I would be late and to find someone to
cover my 5th grade class. The office began to fill and still I sat on the couch,
somehow sinking through the firm, leather skin and into the soft center.
I have heard people say that infertility becomes your life, that it fills it completely up
and takes it over, leaving room for nothing else. I disagree. Infertility isn’t life at all. It
is one big waiting room. It is a space between the life you were living before you
decided to get pregnant and the life that is out of reach. People come in and leave,
barely noticing that you were there when they arrived and are still there as they
leave. I have been waiting through other women’s weddings, pregnancies, baby
showers, births, and first birthday parties. With each new celebrated moment I feel a
slight, yet increasingly tugging urge to scratch the happy mothers’ eyes out. I sit at
the lunch table at work staring into space as everyone talks about their little darlings.
Their fucking little bundles of joy. I keep my mouth full to stifle the urge to relate to
their stories by discussing my dogs. As a result I spend most of my free time at work
with my single friends who discuss their nights out, the boys they are meeting. I listen
to them debate about whether or not they should spend money on a new iPod, while I
privately debate over how I am going to scrape up the next $15,000 to try again.
It has been four years since I first made the exciting decision to change my life and
move on to the next step. I decided that I was done living for myself and wanted to
live for someone else. Just like that, I traded in my fun carefree lifestyle for that of
someone on a mission. No more drinking. I changed my diet, and started taking
vitamins. I was optimistic that everything would work out. I went to sleep at night
dreaming of my wonderful life as a mother, though I often worried that maybe I was
not ready. My mother told me that no one ever feels completely ready. I guess she
hadn’t ever spoken to someone who had been trying for four years. Someone who
put all of her money and energy into something that will not work.
Although I began this process with complete faith and dedication, I’ve been sitting in
this waiting room for the past four years with sweaty hands and clenched teeth and I
am starting to wonder if it is time to walk out. There have been moments of hope and
moments of complete devastation, but most of the time I have just been sitting here
unable to do anything about it. I can still remember all of the things that I wanted and
my dream of holding a soft warm baby, my dream of creating a person who is the
result of my husband’s and my love. One of the reasons I fell in love with my husband
in the first place was because I knew he would be such a wonderful father. This is the
same husband who I don’t even touch anymore because it only reminds me of the
times before. The times before I felt so denied and isolated. The times before I knew
it would be nothing short of a miracle of modern science for me to conceive. I’ve
stopped dreaming of all of the things I would do for and with my child. I have stopped
dreaming of having a family. I don’t think about those things anymore. I just think
about what the next procedure will be, how long it will be before I can afford it. I think
of anything to try to keep the hope in my heart. And I wait for the next pregnancy test.
At approximately 8:15, I was finally called into the office. I sat in the familiar green
vinyl chair with my right arm out. The nurse gave me a ball to squeeze and warned
me that there would be a small prick. I gave an indiscernible nod to the information
that I have heard a hundred times. She said, “Oh! Today’s a big day! Good luck!” I
gave another small nod. Luck has nothing to do with it; neither does love, desire, or
money.
When I left, I got into my car and headed to work. I walked in and pretended that
everything was normal. I’m getting good at that. I heard my cell phone ring at lunch
time, but I decided to listen to the banal ramblings about the previous weekend’s
escapades with the “boys” at the bar. Later as I sat in my room alone, I listened to my
message. The pregnancy test was negative. Again.
| All rights reserved. |
| Waiting Room by Melissa Somerville Spring 2007 |
