Swings and Roundabouts

“What if I can’t get pregnant?” she asks timidly, as she sneaks a bite of cookie dough from the tray of unbaked cookies.

“Why do you keep asking that? There’s no reason to believe we won’t be able to get pregnant,” her husband responds, eyeing her curiously. She doesn’t answer, focused on the cookies. She allows herself a moment to daydream about the children with whom she will one day bake cookies. She imagines a bunch of noisy children helping her bake, who will likely make a mess all over the kitchen counter. She pictures the look on their faces when they discover the pure joy of eating unbaked cookie dough. She thinks about sharing the family recipes with her kids, about telling them about the family members that she used to bake with, all of whom are long gone, as she knew them. She begins to get excited at the thought of baking cookies with her children and sharing the joy of baking with them the way her family members did with her when she was a child. Her husband knocks her out of the reverie, asking impatiently “When will those cookies be ready?”

Later that night, she tosses and turns, unable to get the question out of her head. “What if I can’t get pregnant?” she thinks, repeatedly until finally, she falls into a fitful rest. She continues to ask herself that question over the next few months, terrified that she will be unable to conceive. One early morning, she takes a pregnancy test. She peeks at the result, assuming it will be negative, when she does a double take – are her eyes deceiving her? She’s pregnant! She excitedly wakes up her husband, beyond thrilled at the news. They are excited at the thought of their expanding family. She starts planning and making lists, smiling from ear to ear the entire day. “I got pregnant!” she wants to shout from the rooftops. “I’m going to be a mother!”  It is one of the best days of her life. 

Ten days later, they are crying together. The pregnancy is gone. Her husband consoles her. The doctor is cold, unyielding, telling her that this was a “routine miscarriage” as though there can be anything routine about the situation and the depth of pain that she feels. “At least you can get pregnant,” he says. She finds this thought comforting, thinking that maybe they will have better luck next time.  The doctor assures her that the odds are in her favor, that there is a good chance her next pregnancy will be successful.

They try again, anticipating that they won’t get pregnant quickly. To their utter disbelief, they are pregnant a few months later. They are cautiously optimistic, hoping for the best with this pregnancy, tiptoeing around their excitement. “I guess we don’t have an issue getting pregnant” she says, happy that the issue that she was so worried about has been rendered moot. “We sure can get pregnant,” her husband jokes suggestively, excited at the prospect of becoming a father and proud of his contribution. She is relieved that she can get pregnant. 

Twenty days later, they are crying again. “The pregnancy is not viable,” the doctor says to her, avoiding eye contact. Her stomach sinks. “There must be something we can do,” she pleads, all too aware of the answer, that her baby is already gone. There is nothing to be done. She weeps constantly, watching her body eject the pieces of a pregnancy that was desperately wanted and fiercely loved. “At least you can get pregnant,” a well-intentioned friend says. “Lots of people have issues getting pregnant, and you don’t! That’s a good thing!” She refrains from punching the friend. 

They take a few months to heal. She stops worrying about whether they can get pregnant. They have an accidental pregnancy that ends before it even begins. They take solace in the fact that it was over before they could get attached. They are both shell-shocked. They decide it’s time to see a specialist. She has lost all hope that they are merely getting unlucky, she believes that there is something wrong with her body. He has far more optimism than she does. 

They meet with a doctor, a kind man with good taste in artwork. She notices this and fixates on it, not wanted to confront the truth of why they are meeting with him. He instructs them to undergo a series of tests and procedures, which they dutifully fulfill. She wonders how many uncomfortable tests she will be subjected to, how much more poking and prodding her body must endure before she can call herself a mother. They meet with the doctor again to review the results. The diagnosis is not good. There are a multitude of issues with her reproductive organs, none of which pose any threat to her health but all of which will prevent her from completing a healthy pregnancy. They are advised not to conceive naturally. If they want a child with their genetic material, then their only option is to use assisted reproductive technology. Otherwise, they can adopt a child. These options are so limiting, she thinks.    

She listens numbly, squeezing her husband’s hand as he simultaneously squeezes hers. She looks at her husband, the love of her life, to whom she would give everything, feeling guilty that her body has betrayed her and is preventing her from giving him a child. They cry together, sad and disappointed and angry about the unfairness of the situation. She reaches the unpleasant realization that because the issues are with her body, her husband would be able to have a child naturally if he chose another wife. Her husband is patient with her when she tells him this, comforting her and reassuring her how much he loves her, which makes her feel even more guilty. They discuss how unfair the situation is, how everyone around them had kids so easily and simply. They receive a shock when they find out the cost of in-vitro fertilization, and then a second shock when they find out that such services are not covered by their insurance. A final blow is delivered when they research adoption and learn how expensive and difficult that process can be. They spend a few days in utter disbelief, feeling sorry for themselves and crying intermittently. 

She thinks back to her concerns when they originally began trying to conceive, feeling as though she has aged a decade in a year and a half. She looks at her body, at the excess weight that accompanied each pregnancy that serves as a painful reminder of what she has lost. She thinks it a cruel twist of fate that her fears of not being able to get pregnant have been ameliorated, while her body is unable to remain pregnant. “There’s really no use in being able to get pregnant if you cannot stay pregnant,” she tells someone, “You need both to actually have a baby.”

She bakes cookies, refusing to allow her brain to fall into a daydream of what it might be like to bake with her children. She sighs. “I can get pregnant,” she thinks, “but I definitely cannot stay pregnant.” She throws the cookies into the oven, uninterested in the uncooked dough, feeling remorse that she began to bake in the first place. “Swings and roundabouts,” she says. Her husband walks in, confused. “British people say it,” she says. He shrugs, smiles at her, and then turns his attention to the oven. “When will those cookies be ready?”