Every infertile has heard it a thousand times before.
Just stop trying, and it’ll happen!
Just relax, have some wine!
My sister’s best-friend’s aunt’s neighbor adopted, and then got pregnant with triplets!
You all know the drill.
And we all smile, and say thank you, but I’ve seen a doctor. It’ll never be that simple for me.
And then sometimes you lose two more pregnancies in a year, and get pancreatitis twice in a month (and think you’re really going to die). You find out you might not be able to do IVF anymore, so you look into surrogacy, and becoming foster parents, and natural cycle treatments, and adoption, and literally everything else under the sun.
But no matter what, you both agree, we’re not doing anything about anything for at least six months so I have time to heal.
And then one day, a few weeks later, you’re like, man my boobs hurt. Let me just take this last pregnancy test I have laying around, since I’m a glutton for punishment, and it’s been awhile since I’ve seen confirmation that my ovaries are worthless…
What the hell is that?
That’s a magical, rainbow-breathing, unicorn. It’s the most spectacular accident that has ever accidented. It’s the very definition of flabbergasted and befuddlement. It stops everyone who’s seen it in their tracks, with a look on their face that asks, WTF IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?!
That’s a goddamn miracle — that’s what it is.
And SUCH a cliche.