Busted infertility myth: Privates become public

I watched the scales shift among my friends as woman after woman crossed the line in the sand from Never Given Birth to Been There, Done That.

The war stories they told always reached some point of, “And then all dignity flew out the window,” as labor peaked or plateaued or changed courses.

My understanding was that, until that Point of No Return, I would continue my standard operating procedure when visiting my “girly doctor.” You know the drill – shower, groom, make sure you don’t partake in sweaty activities, etc., prior to climbing onto the exam table and into the stirrups. And if it was that “special time of the month?” HA! Forget it! That is GROSS, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in those stirrups during that time!

Then infertility happened.

As I prepared for my first baseline examination, the visit to the reproductive endocrinologist that usually takes place on Cycle Day 3 (that’s three days after Aunt Flo has shown up uninvited), I reached out to my online community with a super embarrassing question. It went something like this:

“Um. They’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound tomorrow. I’m still bleeding. I wear tampons. Won’t that get in the way?”

The response: “You take it out, silly.”

That’s when I stopped publicly embarrassing myself and worked through my immature insecurities while staring at that response with eyes as big as saucers.

So, I have to go without a tampon. And they’re going to go in there, investigating … stuff. On CD 3. With that mess. Oh my dear Lord, they’re going to see my MESS. Down THERE. That sacred spot, in this sacred time. How embarrassing! How am I ever going to get through this without turning bright red and requiring antiperspirant for my sweaty palms?

See, when that dignity flies out the window during birth – as the stories go – it happens in the heat of battle. There are drugs, there is excitement, there is pain – all distractions that kill whatever cares for dignity preservation.

There, on that exam table on CD 3 that first cycle, it was quiet. It was 7:30 a.m. I was bleary eyed and scared out of my mind, disgusted with what was about to happen and angry that I had to endure such humiliation.

And then I went back the next cycle. And the next. And the next. Eventually, those early-morning CD 3 visits became old hat. Even the other, less messy days requiring transvaginal ultrasounds lost their elements of fear and embarrassment.

My dignity down there was gone. I saw six different REs over the course of my treatment and spread my legs several times during each cycle. Sometimes my husband was present, sometimes it was just me, a doctor and a nurse. Gone were the days of preparation for the dreaded annual exam. Infertility introduced me to the fact that my privates could become just as public as any other part on me.

Infertility killed my dignity, but it empowered my acceptance of my body. Even at those 7 a.m. exams when grooming was the last task I could possibly complete.

I busted this myth in honor of National Infertility Awareness Week. I chose to hit a lighter side of infertility, but that doesn’t mean I take it lightly, nor should you. Visit RESOLVE for more information on what infertility is and who it affects.