When Sex Stops Being Fun, Or, Why Clomid Is Evil

After my second miscarriage, D and I decided to take a break from baby-making for a few months. It was just too emotionally difficult to stay on the roller coaster non-stop. Six months passed before we were ready to try again.

Dr. Flyboy had given me a prescription for Clomid, even though I argued and argued with him that I ovulate. “I’m not convinced that you do,” he said, ignoring my sputtering about TWO PRIOR PREGNANCIES. Again, I am the patient, I am too stupid to know anything about my body. So I left with my bag of candy, err, Clomid, and spent the next six months debating the pros and cons of it with what felt like everyone in North America:

“I have this friend who took fertility drugs and she got pregnant with triplets and it was horrible, don’t take it,” said Well-Meaning-But-Ignorant-Friend-Number-One.

“What if it gives you cancer?” asked Well-Meaning-But-Ignorant-Friend-Number-Two.

“God will give you a baby when he is ready to,” prophesied Uber-Religious-Friend.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” asked Unmarried-Childless-And-Happy-That-Way-Sister.

“I don’t think you need it,” said Wise-But-Sometimes-Nosy-Mother.

“What do you think?” I asked D, the only person whose opinion I actually value.

“I think there are compelling reasons for and against it,” he said, being frustratingly non-committal, for which I hit him with a pillow.

Ultimately, he decided it was my decision.

Gee, thanks.

So I did something I don’t often do – I asked the Universe for a sign. Please, please, let me know if I should do this, I prayed, my window of time closing quickly.

You have to take Clomid really early in your cycle, so I had to decide before Monday morning if I was going to do it or not. On Sunday it snowed four inches, a beautiful thick blanket of white in our backyard. Obligatory Miscarriage Dog (OMD) and I ran outside to play. As we ran, I felt a tug on my wrist.

The charm my sister had made me broke onto the snow, spilling crimson pomegranate seeds onto the bright white ground, sparkling. It was a fertility totem, and it had broken. This was my sign – the Universe clearly did not want me to take Clomid. I collected all of the beads that I could find, re-strung them, and laid them carefully in my jewelry box. Even though I had asked for a sign, even though I knew that this was one, I yelled at the Universe to screw itself, and on Monday morning took a tiny white pill of Clomid.

The Universe was not amused.

Within an hour of taking the Clomid, my vision started getting blurry. I blinked at the computer screen, trying to refocus my eyes. I realized I was dizzy, and extremely thirsty. This continued through most of the morning as I tried to take a shower and then work. Finally, I decided to take a break and get some lunch. That’s when I realized that I was having difficulty swallowing. I called Dr. Flyboy’s office immediately.

“I’m having a reaction to the Clomid,” I told Insensitive-Nurse.

“I’ve never heard of anyone having a reaction to Clomid before,” she retorted.

“Well, I am. I can’t swallow and I’m dizzy,” I told her, getting pissed.

“Don’t take anymore and come see us tomorrow,” she replied, and hung up.

The next day I reported to Dr. Flyboy’s office, and found my blood pressure was normal – for the rest of you. My blood pressure is usually 90/60.

I know, I’m a freak.

That day it was 115/80. Perfectly good blood pressure, right?

Not for me; for me, that’s almost hypertensive.

“Hmm,” Dr. Flyboy said, as he listened to my description of what had happened the day before. “Did you take your blood pressure yesterday?” he asked.

“No, you didn’t tell me to.” I wanted to kick him.

“This is really weird. I’ve never heard of anyone having a reaction to Clomid,” he said, echoing Insensitive-Nurse.

“That’s what your nurse said,” I confirmed, giving up.

“Don’t take Clomid again,” he decided, and then proceeded to tell me about the range of injectable drugs that we could look at as our next step.

“But we haven’t even started trying again,” I pleaded. “I’ve never had trouble getting pregnant before, I have trouble staying pregnant.”

“Yes, of course,” he said patronizingly, because of course I was stupid enough to think I could ovulate naturally. “Why don’t you just try again naturally, and then come see me in the spring when you haven’t gotten pregnant.”

Not “if” you haven’t gotten pregnant – “when” you haven’t gotten pregnant.

So D and I started trying again. This time, there were no long loving looks, no sighs of “we’re making a baby.”

“I’m in my fertile window,” I announced. “Come on, let’s go.”

“But I’m on call,” he pleaded, pointing to his pager.

“I’ll be quick, just hurry up,” I said, and marched him to the bedroom.

I made him have sex when we both had colds. (Ever coughed and sneezed while doing it? That’s a weird feeling). I made him have sex when he was post-call and almost fell asleep mid-coitus. I fought with him when he wouldn’t do it at his parent’s house. I fought with him over the astroglide (I know if feels good, but what if it is why we keep losing babies? Put it down. PUT IT DOWN.) I accused him of not wanting a baby, of withholding sex so I wouldn’t get pregnant. Finally his patience broke, and we had the mother of all fights. I cried, I sobbed, I hit him with my fists like a girl. I threatened to leave. “You can have a baby into your seventies!,” I screamed. “I can’t! My time is running out! What if we do all of this, and I can’t have a baby, and you decide to find someone who can?”

And that was what it was all about. My fear that, deep inside, he wouldn’t love me if I couldn’t give him a baby. As soon as I said it, I saw the hurt in his eyes, watched him fight back tears. “You think I would ever leave you?” he asked, clearly shocked. “I’m afraid you’ll leave me if I can’t give you a child,” he said, and I suddenly started laughing, my anger spent. “I’m so sorry,” I told him, “I’m so sorry for being such an obsessive-compulsive bitch.”

“I’m sorry too,” he replied, and I laughed again.

“You’re sorry I’m an obsessive-compulsive bitch, too?” I teased, giggling at his frustration, then kissed him lightly in apology.

Comments

[monica]

thank you for posting this.

[jennifernix]

Thanks for posting this! I have no kids, am 30 years old (about to turn 31) and just assumed that when I was ready I would magically get pregnant, right? Well, it's been a year of trying and we had a miscarriage at 8 weeks in January (after telling the whole family we were pregnant like idiots at Christmas). Here I am 6 months later (1 year since we started trying) and I'm about to have "the infertility workup" at my dr.'s office. Fun stuff. Clomid is an option for us in the future and I'm glad to read someone's perspective on it. I cracked up at your "OMD--Obligatory Miscarriage Dog!" :) I have an "OMVI" (Obligatory Miscarriage Video Ipod) which has served as a nice distraction from life and reality this Spring! I'm anxious to hear your updates--whether you guys get pregnant again soon. I'm always looking for encouragement on this stupid thing we call the internet and so many times I find reasons to feel frustrated. Thanks for posting your sincere and humorous story to lighten my day! :)