Posted on: July 1, 2008
The Day the Infertility Music Died
By Matthew M. F. Miller
CTW Features
During the 12 months we’ve been holding court with Dr. Reya for infertility treatment, my wife, Constance, and I have fallen for her rootsy charm and no-nonsense care. Even this morning as she poked her head through the window that separates her offices from the waiting room I was comforted by her familiar face and the shoulder-length brown hair that is the pendulum that swings back and forth, marking time in our childless march.
“I hated getting that call yesterday,” she said. “I was praying for you guys. I’m just so sorry this wasn’t the month.”
Her face was sullen yet determined, and it is in that face and in the countless inappropriate jokes and stories she has shared with us that we have drawn the most viable, cost-effective fuel to keep our never ending drive up the mountain as economical and fun as possible.
Which is why Constance cried on the drive to the train and I still sit at my desk, sullen and moody, after finding out Dr. Reya does not do IVF. Before we even had the chance to announce our decision to move on, to move ahead to the most promising option for us to become parents, she suggested it was time for us to go the high-tech route.
“Your sperm count is perfect for IVF, and at your age, Constance, you guys are great candidates,” she said. “I’ll give you two referrals of places where I send my patients, you’ll just have to check with your insurance to see which one will be covered.” When Dr. Reya left the room to write the referrals Constance got dressed in silence. There was very little air or room left to breathe.
Regardless the reason for treatment, it’s a rare gift to love your doctor. I never expected to become invested in our infertility specialist on a personal level, to root for a specific doctor to be the hero of this tale and give us our baby. I had envisioned sharing the joy of success with Dr. Reya, of defeating the enemy with her super-scientific prowess and crying tears of joy and exhaustion once the positive pregnancy test arrived.
Now it feels like something big and quasi-positive has come to an end with something harder ready to assume it’s place. Something more than the inconvenient hassle of switching doctors or telling our story all over again to a strange man or woman ready to insert instruments of torture into Constance. I feel as though I’ve been reading this comic book and expecting my personal Batman to annihilate evil, but instead of a climactic victory for the good of fertility kind, my Batman was killed by a demonic ultrasound wand fixed for revenge.
Maybe we’ll have to be the heroes of our own tale after all, I just hope we’re as strong without our proverbial leader because I’m tired of waiting to become a dad.
