I married my husband when I was twenty-three years old.
That first year was hard for some reason, I guess it was just the adjustment to living with someone and whatnot.. everything they tell you is going to be difficult that first year. My husband is a very smart, adventurous and charming man (he might’ve told me to say that last one)… and in our seven years of marriage we have become all meshy and close and like-minded.
After that first year, we started talking about starting our family and six months later, began “trying”. There’s never been a real history of infertility in my family (or so I thought when I began the baby-making journey) but after a couple months of negative pregnancy tests, I started getting a little worried. Thanks to Google, I discovered that it’s perfectly normal for it to take six months to a year to get pregnant even though it seemed like everyone I knew got pregnant simply by standing next to their spouse on a hot day. I didn’t share my troubles with anyone for that first year. Then I decided to go talk to my OBGYN. Honestly, she didn’t run too many tests on me… but rather put me on Clomid for several months. Living in the desert during summer while on a medicine that causes severe heat flashes made life extra fun.
It also made me bat shit crazy. So that’s cool.
Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a long relationship (like one of those relationships where you really hate the person) with fertility drugs, procedures, miscarriage and the absolute hell of infertility. The enormous struggle I was made to endure for several years. Through challenge, we gain strength.. or so they say. I believe that now, of course, looking back from the comfort of my present, full-hearted situation.. but at the time I felt utterly defined and crippled by it.