You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Remember that time I wrote about how I wasn’t sure I was ready to have another baby?

Soon after I wrote that, the Canuck and I decided to have another baby. I’m tricky like that. Freak in overblown manner, discuss ad nauseum, come to terms, make decision. That is my way.

Nine months later, I was in my OB’s office for my annual. I mentioned casually that I had been trying to get pregnant but wasn't having any luck. I wasn’t too worried because clearly I had the reproductive goods, and anyway it had taken 8 months to conceive Chloe, so this was only a little longer than that. “Huh,” she said. “If you’re not pregnant in three months, I want you to come back for some tests.”

Three months later, nada, not even a chemical pregnancy. We started the work-up. First, the Canuck took his lunch hour for a little love in the afternoon at Repro Lab. He would like you to know all his boys are the Michael Phelps of sperm. I was up next. I was a champion ovulator – check. My ovaries weren’t shriveling up – check. There was no fallopian tube blockage (oh do ask me over cocktails some time about the 18-inch catheter they put up my hoo-ha to help them make that determination) – check. However, blood tests revealed that I was woefully low in progesterone. A successful pregnancy usually requires at least a level of 15. I was a 7.

“Dx: Infertility” she wrote on my file.