I'm one of the millions of women in the U.S. that has experienced secondary fertility issues. I've been trying for 4 years to have my 2nd child, and 4 years feels like a lifetime. I come from an Irish Catholic family full of women that love to get pregnant. Every time there’s a family reunion, I'm reminded that I'm a mom of one. Besides my family being huge, they're also incredibly nosy. I'm constantly bombarded with questions: "Are you going to have more?" "Why can't you have more?" "What's wrong with you?" And, the grand-prize winner: "Are you having, you know, sex?"
No, Aunt Gertie; I’m trying to get pregnant the King James way.
With my first child, I thought that all one needed to do was have sex in the backseat of a ’94 Cavalier to get pregnant. The second time around, automotive coitus didn't work out so well, so I took the logical step of buying a Jeep. That didn't do the trick either. Thankfully, before I went shopping for a truck, I realized I needed an approach other than vehicular aphrodisia. Sorry, Ford.
Discovering the cause of infertility is the first step to securing a more optimistic future of fertility. According to 4women.gov, PCOS is the most common cause of female infertility. PCOS (Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome) is a condition that can affect a woman's menstrual cycle, hormones, heart, blood vessels, appearance, and ability to have children. One in 10 women have PCOS and many suffer with it for years before they are correctly diagnosed, as it can often be mistaken for other problems.
I was diagnosed with PCOS nearly two years ago after suffering with symptoms since puberty. It wasn't an easy diagnosis; I went through a constantly revolving door of doctors, herbalists, quacks, hacks and love gurus in order to cure this mystery ailment.
One of the first doctors I saw insisted I was pregnant after I told her that I had not had my period for months. I kept trying to tell her that I was not pregnant, that I'd already been trying for two years with no results. She responded, "Well then, why don't you have a monthly cycle?"
I told her, "That's why I'm here; you tell me."
After consulting the moon, stars, and the face of Aphrodite in a snickerdoodle cookie, she told me in no uncertain terms that I was pregnant. She then prescribed me prenatal vitamins, and made me take a urine test to check for protein, promising to schedule a follow-up appointment as soon as she got my results back. She never called to schedule a follow-up.
Maybe next time she’ll try reading tea leaves.
Another memorable doctor dutifully pronounced me an alcoholic after blood work showed poor liver function. And while we Irish are known for our (ahem) enthusiasm when it comes to alcohol, I'm the black sheep of the family—a glass of wine, maybe twice a year—I am a poor excuse for a stereotype. Anyway, the doctor insisted I was an alcoholic and said it was making me fat and destroying my liver. If he and the previous doctor had got together, I probably would have been lectured on not drinking while pregnant. While they attached leeches to my body to suck out all the evil spirits.
Finally, I found my current physician (after the pre-natal acupuncturist, the winged gypsy, and the guy with the wandering fingers who said I suffered from the hypo), who told me I wasn't pregnant and I wasn't an alcoholic—I had PCOS.
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