Where My Beaches At?!

Did you know that this is National Infertility Awareness Month?  Well, I’M AWARE! I’m also aware that I haven’t left the Midwest in almost a year.  If you’re familiar with the Midwest at all – you’ll know to be horrified by that revelation.  After a depressing combination of trying to conceive for a year and being a Midwesterner, I have to say: I am struggling.  I can’t even handle the simple task of dressing myself anymore – it’s that confusing freezing to warm to freezing temperature that always accompanies the start of spring.  Like, do I just layer like crazy every day or…? Ugh. Screw it! I want to trade my temperature-confused outfits for bikinis and flip flops (and a pair of six pack abs, if we’re making beachwear requests).

“I think the only time you’re not complaining is when you’re at a beach.” – Direct quote from my husband.  He gets me.  Can’t blame a girl for claiming the beach as her happy place: toes in the sand, drink in your hand, other lyrics from country songs.  There’s a reason it’s called paradise. I’ve been begging my husband to take me on vacation for months – I’m in desperate need of some space between me and my hoard of sticks and lubes.  I want to spend my next two week wait sprawled across a swim up bar – thoughts of pineapple core and symptoms far from my mind. Picture this with me: white sand, clear water, frozen cocktails, and…zika?  My happy place has been infected.

Traveling to zika-infested areas (aka everywhere beautiful and fun)  is another thing on my list of shit I can’t do just because I’ve thought about having a baby (for the past fourteen months).  The Caribbean, Bahamas, Mexico – all are mocking me with their tantalizing beaches and plethora of mosquitos.  “Isn’t it worth knowing you’d have a healthy baby rather than risking it for a bar inside a pool?” – why is life asking me such difficult questions?  And If you think I have the patience to wait six months to attempt to conceive just so I can lounge at all inclusive resort with a swim up bar, you are – most sadly – mistaken.  

I don’t even fully understand zika.   Are you seriously telling me that every woman who lives in a zika riddled area is told she shouldn’t get pregnant?  Are they forcing birth control pills on women and shoving condoms at men? What about the surprise honeymoon babies that are conceived in the Caribbean year-round?  It can’t be that bad.  Really we should be focusing on the positives of these places – like that they’re full of vitamin D, which is supposed to help with infertility!  (Who knew that in order to conceive, you just needed some D, AMIRIGHT?!) If Doctor Kate hadn’t put her own personal No Travel Ban on me, I’d be jetting off to Cabo with nothing but several bottles of mosquito repellant and a prayer.  And don’t even get me started on the fact that I could’ve been to the Caribbean – twice, – met the six month waiting requirement between being exposed to toxic mosquitos and getting pregnant, and STILL be in the same place I am today (albeit slightly more relaxed and exponentially more tan).  Now all I have is that infertile glow, and it’s not even a real glow – just sweat from my hot flashes (thanks Clomid)!

My husband is trying to appease me by saying we can go to Key West – the fancy version of Florida, since they’ve been declared zika free (which I’m not even sure is 100% true, but don’t tell him because then he won’t even take me there).  At this point, telling me that I can go to Florida is a lot like saying you can have canned tuna when what you wanted was a steak. Besides, going to Florida any time besides, say, right now, is like traveling to the Midwest in the midst of their stickiest heatwave.  Not to mention I haven’t been able to find a SINGLE swim up bar in all my hotel searches. Where’s my all inclusive resort? WHERE ARE MY FREE FROZEN COCKTAILS?!

This beach-crave stems from the fact that I have nothing to look forward to, unless you count my surplus of upcoming appointments.  Normally there’s a Christmas or a long planned out trip to keep me going but…nope. The mundanity of this life can’t be good on my eggs.  No wonder they’re poor quality, they’re depressed! Even if appointments weren’t crowding up my weeks – to top it off, there’s not even anywhere for me to go.  This process just takes and takes and takes.  Congratulations uterus – you managed to ruin my vacations too!

Maybe this is all because I know I’m a few pills away from losing my Ambien and Xanax – the last few shreds of my pre-TTC life, and the only things that can plummet me to sleep when I’m stressed beyond the help of calming teas.  No one will give me more pills at this stage. They’re not going to provide me with mood altering drugs any sooner than they’re going to ship me off to the Bali. I can see the headlines now: Woman Dies From Being Over-Anxious and Lack of The D.  

I would like to put in a formal request to spend my remaining two week waits laying on a beach.  *Googles: Zika is a scam*

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