Would it never work?

The life of Tess Hoens is amazing, but even she has things that don't quite go as she had hoped. And she wants to write about that. Because there is already enough of a facade and because honesty helps. Tess has a desire for children, but getting pregnant is still not working. This week she talks about that one ovulation.

After trying a hundred types of medication and dosages, each new plan gave a little hope again. My blood was tested after the last doctor's visit and it turned out that I was eligible for the Lutrelef pump, or the more pleasant version of a new step.

The pump is a small box that you have to fill with the right medication. It took a while before I got the hang of it through all sorts of steps with needles and buttons. Then you stick the thing on your belly and activate it with a remote control. A small needle shoots out of the box into your belly and it administers the medication very gradually, all day long. You have to replace it every three days and if you forget, you are reminded by a loud alarm (and yes, I have been woken up by that at night). I thought it would be a hassle, but the box became my new best friend. I got the hang of it, felt almost nothing from the hormones being administered, and could still sleep on my belly, my favorite position. I felt privileged to be able to use this expensive medication.

After the first month, it turned out that it hadn't worked. My follicle (or egg sac) had grown well and so my doctor concluded that it was working, but ultimately it turned out that the actual ovulation had not occurred. Again a disappointment. The woman on the phone who conveyed this result to me in a bored tone, I hated, and at that moment I wanted to throw my phone in the water. Would it never work?

Doctor Mesman told me that I had to continue the same process. Only something was added now. At the moment the follicle was the right size, I had to add an injection that would give the final push towards ovulation.

Now I walk through the hallway at work, waiting on the phone to get the result of whether there has been an ovulation. Or if I have even had a chance at a pregnancy. Or if my body is finally doing something feminine. ‘Yes, Mrs. Hoens, the blood test from yesterday shows that you have had an ovulation.’ Tears spring to my eyes. I know this means there is a twenty percent chance of pregnancy and that I probably am not pregnant, but just the idea that my body is doing what it is supposed to do (okay, through boxes and injections) makes me very happy now. There is hope again.