When I was in college, I had to take a Biology class helmed by a trollish, self-congratulatory professor who insisted that, despite my English degree, someday I would rely on my newfound knowledge of Punnett squares and charged particles when it inevitably came up at a cocktail party. Needless to say, that party never materialized (thank god), and I failed Biology.
In a study of irony, these days I find myself leaning heavily on science to build a family. Infertility has my husband punching injectable drugs into my stomach, and turned a red Solo cup from a party vessel into a urine collection container. It has constantly placed me in those dreaded stirrups, while a high-priced Reproductive Endocrinologist with a lousy bedside manner pokes and prods my unfurled lady parts for a roomful of medical students. It is an isolated, lonely place to live, where jealousy and anger fight with an uncontrollable, child-like "it's not fair!" that reverberates over and over.
Outwardly, I try to remain stoically polite to the seemingly growing numbers of blooming baby bellies and glowing mama-faces. I remind myself almost daily that my husband and I WILL have a baby - even if it has to make it's embryonic start in a Petri dish for a small fortune. :)
