For once, I’m at a loss for words. Not just any words, but the "right" words. I’d rather take this time and write about X’s swim and tae kwon do classes. Or how our property became a scene from CSI Nebraska on Wednesday. I’d rather describe a sexual issue I haven’t had the guts to talk about, or even the desire to, but one that I really should get off my chest. I’m even thinking of starting a new category ("Stories from the Office Toilet") because everyfuckinday, it’s something!
Instead I feel like my brain has suddenly become a scrabble game and the words are there, I just have to get them together without them reading like caveman-speak (me angry. me sad. me no feel resolution with Mr. DD)(……Is it me, or was that more Tarzan-speak?).
I scheduled an appointment for Mr. DD and myself to meet with our RE on April 5. I can’t get a weekend, and I can’t get a Friday. Either one would be more convenient for Mr. DD. Because it’s at 11:00 am, we each will need the full day off with the 2+ hours drive one way. He’s upset and says, "I have to take the whole day off for this? Why do I have to be there?"
Because I’m sick and fucking tired of you asking me why can’t we get a pregnancy to hold. I don’t have the answer, and when I tell you that NO one will have the answer, you scoff at me. Then you say stupid things like "If we can get one good egg from you and one good sperm from me, why don’t we just get a surrogate?" I’m so flummoxed by his "rationalization", I really have no way to answer that without lunging at him and ripping out his throat in frustration.
Let’s break that down, shall we?
One. Good. Egg.
HAHAHAHAhahahahahahaha. HA!………(one more time, with emphasis: HA!)
One. Good. Sperm.
Oh now you’re just embarrassing yourself. Stop, OK?
Get. A. Surrogate.
Of course! Let’s just run down to the Surrogate Store – the one downtown as the one on the corner is a little sketchy – and pick out a nice, if not slightly used, uterus, mmkay?
It’s not my uterus that’s the problem. It’s the two things you think we have that go in it, that’s the problem. It seems that any embryo we may create together (or one that is created via donor sperm) will not be Grade AA quality. A crappy embryo is a crappy embryo no matter what uterus you put it it. Even Momma Duggar’s uterus would probably reject an embryo made with my egg.
And this is where our RE comes back into the picture. We entered their clinic nearly two years ago with unexplained infertility. We were then diagnosed with MFI. After three miscarriages, it pretty much boils down to Shit for Eggs as well. What to do next? I don’t know.
I don’t know.
And therein lies my frustration with Mr. DD. I have no more answers to pull out of my ass for him. We are starting from scratch and just as I never would have imagined going to our first appointment two years ago by myself, I wouldn’t now when I feel our options are slowly being eliminated. I need him to be emotionally vested again in the process as this past year he has become quite detached except to get frustrated when I’m feeling particularly down and weepy. I’m sure it’s because he feels unable to help. That is not a position my husband will ever feel comfortable in.
He’s a born handyman. If I or someone in either of our families or even an acquaintance needs help with something, he is there. If he can’t fix it, he’ll set up arrangements to get it fixed. So, yes, I am angry and frustrated with him and what appears to be his standoffish behavior. But I’m trying to appreciate that he sees something broken and is completely frozen by the reality that there’s really nothing he can do to fix it. I am trying to make him understand that we have to ask for help. We need our clinic to hold our hands and lead us to the best option, instead of going with the option that’s most palatable to our egos. We may even have to hear, "There’s nothing more we can do."
That’s why he needs to be there. I will need someone to hold me up if we are to walk out of the clinic for the last time.