The Baby Trap

By: Sibel Hodge

Prologue





Why is it that you spend most of your young adult life trying not to get pregnant, and yet when you actually want to get pregnant, you can’t? How annoying is that? Not to mention frustrating, depressing, soul-destroying, and numerous other feelings that I’ve experienced at one time or another in the last two years. I know I’m in danger of losing myself in a never-ending round of fertility treatment, wishing this time it’s going to magically work. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost myself already. I’ve become a neurotic nutcase who’s bored with life, boring, unsociable, and turning into a frump. What happened to the happy, carefree woman I used to be? The woman who used to enjoy life, have a laugh, appreciate her lot, and drink one too many bottles of wine at the weekends? Obsessed. Yes, that’s what I am, but it’s not my fault. It’s this feeling that I can’t explain. This desperate need inside me to have a baby. This urge that has completely turned my brain to single-train thoughts: Baby, baby, baby.

And as the years have gone on, I’m morphing into the ghost of myself. Someone who can’t enjoy life because I’m too busy worrying and wondering when and if it’s going to happen for me. I don’t even recognize myself most of the time anymore. I’m constantly wishing for the end of my cycle to hurry up and arrive to see if I’ve hit the jackpot this time, and when it doesn’t work, I’m constantly wishing for the middle of my cycle so I can ovulate and try again. I’m unable to feel whole and complete unless I have a son or daughter to hold.

So this year I have to take drastic action before I get sucked into a giant abyss of despair and can never get back. I’m going to give it six more months of trying, and if I still can’t get pregnant…well, that’s it. I’m giving up. This is the last year I’m going through it. I’ve absolutely, definitely, positively made my mind up. I know I said that the last time, and the time before that, oh, and the time before that, but I really mean it this time.

Really.

Maybe really.

Nope. Really and truly, this year is going to be my year to give up trying for a baby.

I’m sick of people looking up my lady garden, prodding me, poking me. Doctors and nurses at the Assisted Conception Unit and friends looking at me with sympathy. I’m also sick of the following:





1) Having no spontaneous sex. It’s not the same when you have to have precision-timed nookie. I’m also having to give precision-timed wanks to Karl in aid of sperm tests.

2) Leaving my legs hanging in the air after sex for ten minutes – although have been known to do it for up to forty as there are varying opinions on the length of time necessary.

3) Being obsessed about babies all the time.

4) Not having time for Karl and me anymore as always obsessing about babies. I’m worried we’re drifting apart.

5) Being hormonal and moody from all the fertility drugs, and sometimes wanting to kill perfectly innocent people for no reason.

6) Bawling my eyes out every time I have my period (and countless other times, too).

7) Eating healthy organic food and giving up alcohol and smoking.

8) Constantly texting tarot card hotlines to find out if and when I will get pregnant (my mobile phone bill is the same as a small country’s debt!).

9) Trying every alternative fertility treatment under the sun.

10) Isn’t that enough reasons?





I always said I’d never write down my infertility journey, but I’ve changed my mind now. Actually, it was Poppy, whom I met online at the Fertility Friends website, who suggested it. We’ve got to know each other pretty well through emails and phone calls in the last two years. How can I describe Poppy? Hmm…if I’d met her in any normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been my type of friend. She’s a floaty, New Age, holistic type, who says she can see auras and talks about cosmic energy, Karma, and projecting positive thoughts to the Universe. Now, normally I’d burst into uncontrollable laughter if someone told me I had to imagine a bright white light of happiness radiating through my body to my ovaries, but I’ve done some pretty bizarre things in my quest to get pregnant, so maybe it’s time I started listening to her and took her advice. What the hell, why not? What have I got to lose? I mean, the drugs and IVF don’t seem to be working, so if I can finally have my little bundle of joy by chanting a few words and hugging a tree, why not give it a go? Although Karl will probably freak and think I’ve lost my mind completely after all the “ridiculous ideas” (as he calls them) I’ve come up with so far. I’ve gone from being someone totally unsuperstitious to someone who looks for signs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Not to mention the fertility symbols and spells.