Illustration by Christine Wei
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It’s a funny thing trying to get pregnant. Many women diligently take birth control. Then we find ourselves in our late 30s or older, with our career in place, a partner we can stand long enough to raise a child with and we are ready to make a baby.
But family planning doesn’t always go according to plan. My partner and I tried, and we kept trying. More months went by, and we were still trying. The worry crept in. Cue the social media scrolls of pregnancy photoshoots, and round-bellied babies reminding you every month that they’ve reached a new milestone and you’ve failed to hit the starting line.
I saved face at the baby showers of friends and family, for whom I was trying so hard to be happy, then went home and bawled my eyes out. Infertility is difficult. I’m glad more people are talking about it, because I found talking about it to a room full of strangers was my only way through it.
I call myself an amateur stand-up comedian in Ottawa’s vibrant comedy scene. Comedy is how I made sense of the year of my life that was measured in follicle sizes, egg retrieval timing, and embryo quality (I am describing IVF here, a.k.a., the “test tube” method). I wrote one heck of a stand-up comedy routine!
It’s time I wear my belly with pride
Crafting jokes about my experiences was my outlet and how I kept sane through it all – the age-old benefits of humour in tough times.
While trying to get pregnant naturally, I was actively pursuing all the health advice I’d heard and seen. I dove deep into Googling, and soon my Instagram algorithm caught up. Social media tried to clickbait me into purchasing ancient medicinal tea with an 80 per cent pregnancy success rate for $500. I did not buy the fertility tea, but I was close to drinking the Kool-Aid.
When it became time to get clinical, begrudgingly, my tests were far more invasive than my male partner’s. I mean, anatomically, my rational brain reminded me that I do have the uterus. I couldn’t help being annoyed that my male partner carried on with his life, seemingly unaffected, enjoying his nightly toke, while watching NHL games instead of charting monthly basal temperatures like me.
Ready to review our tests, we sat down for our first official appointment with the fertility doctor. I piped up, hoping for a health lecture that would resonate with my partner.
“Are there any healthy lifestyle choices that he and I can make to increase our chances of getting pregnant?”
The doctor turned to my partner and said, “You just keep doing what you’re doing, your sperm quality is off the charts!” I remember thinking, Oh my god, that’s so funny; this would be a great opening joke. This was my “aha” moment: I am not in control here. There’s no way I can plan my way through this. Here I am doing all the things, and he’s getting praised!
On the drive home, although I was sad to hear that I had low ovarian reserve, I lay my head back in the passenger’s seat, closed my eyes and started thinking about how I could punch up that joke. For example, “Naturally, the lawyer in me began seeking out peer-reviewed articles on how marijuana affects sperm count.” Yep, that would get a pop before the punchline.
The IVF journey was still rough despite my comedic force field, but instead of scrolling Instagram in the emotionally charged clinic waiting room, I’d close my eyes, put my head back and silently work on how to make my pharmacy visit and fallopian tube test funny.
Trying to parent my young children in traffic taught me to be present
Carrying on with your life while undergoing fertility treatments is a mental marathon. Injecting hormones provides a wealth of material. Like the time I forgot my courthouse pass, which allows me to bypass security. My law partner rushed to my aid, sneaking the Gonal-F injection pen and the accompanying ice pack into the building in her designer handbag. Forty minutes later, I sat on a bathroom stall toilet seat in my barrister’s robes and administered the time-sensitive needle.
That was a difficult morning; it was my second round of IVF, and my follicle count was low again. The presiding Judge opened court, with a habitual “Good morning, counsel,” and I wanted to scream, “Good morning? Before 7 a.m., I had scapula shoved into me for a transvaginal ultrasound, only to find out that my uterine lining isn’t thick enough and they may not even do a damn egg retrieval.”
I still wish I had gotten that unhinged rant on the record, ordered the transcript and framed it for my wall. Perhaps I should include that anecdote in my comedy act?
I did “get” a baby, and he’s terrific! Somehow, I knew the year of manifesting the night I could finally waddle on stage, point to my round belly and say, “This, now this, was not a well-timed date night,” would happen.
Ceilidh Henderson lives in Ottawa.
