Bio - The Stress and Heartache of Infertility

Bio- Mary Beth Fries Buchner – the Stress and Heartache of Infertility

In early adolescence, I started drawing pictures of the 12 children I planned to have.   I loved babies; I didn’t even mind changing “poopie” diapers.   So it came as a complete shock and brutal disappointment when month after month my unwanted friend continued to show up.   “God”, I said,” is this some kind of bizarre joke or cruel punishment for my past bad behavior? “   

There was a laboratory right smack in the middle of each Specialty Clinic Suite at Downstate Medical Center where I was working at the time, so I decided to bring in a sample of Bob’s semen.   I’ll mention here that this was not an easy thing for me to do.  At this time in my life, I believed that every single speck of lost semen was against the laws of nature and could condemn one to an eternity in hell.   Judy, the forceful, outspoken lab technician in Clinic D, convinced me that I’d be foolish not to bring in a semen specimen in order to rule out any issues with sperm before undergoing an extensive, invasive infertility work-up.    When she looked under the microscope and casually announced, “Not good”; I wanted to slap her.  How could she be so unperturbed; didn’t she realize she had just shattered my life’s dream?!    

So when I showed up at the flamboyant Fertility Expert’s Office, sperm report securely in hand, I expected some reaction.  Nothing, Na Da!   He completely ignored this information.   It was as if I had showed these lab details to the inanimate, framed credentials plastered all over his wall.  He was going to follow his typical protocol whether or not it made any sense.   I was the woman, and I guess deep down in the inner recesses of his mind, I was the problem.   While I sat dismayed in his office, he proceeded to grab his latest, newly published book off of the shelf, held it right up in front of my face, as if to prove to me that he indeed was the expert.      “Don’t bother,” I said, “I’ve already read it!”

Nonetheless, in spite of my seeming bravado, I was young and inexperienced and wanted a baby. So week after week, I went to his office for one test or another.   Typically, I went alone; after all I was a big girl now, wasn’t I?   On one such visit, I went into his inner chambers for an endometrial biopsy, was given a gas mask, and was lying in those infamous stirrups, in the most intimidating position of all when Dr. Flamboyant screamed at me, “pant like a dog” (I kid you not!).  I think he wanted me really drugged and I was not taking deep enough inhalations of the gas to satisfy him.   “Pant like a dog” nauseated me, this was the proverbial, last straw.  I never went back to him again.   

Next I went to a fertility specialist on Long Island.   He too concentrated solely on me.  Funny, I always thought it took a sperm and an ovum to produce a pregnancy.   Eventually, my history proved that I had definite signs and symptoms of endometriosis, and although my tubes were patent and my biopsy confirmed I was ovulating, my unwanted friend continued to arrive like clockwork.   Speaking of clockwork, did I mention I was taking my temperature on a very regular basis, watching my mucous - very sexy foreplay, I might add- and calling Bob to my bed at the most inopportune times.   Still no baby.