Duck, Duck, Goose

(Disclaimer: it turns out that my midwestern friends, from seminary, all played "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" in childhood. "Goose" is apparently a west coast thing. So you can substitute your choice of water fowl at will.)

We used to play this game as children. You sat nervously in a circle, waiting for the tagger to touch your head, waiting expectantly to see who would be the "goose" and have to chase around the circle, trying to be the first to sit in the empty spot. I never wanted to be the goose, because a.) I don't really like to run, and b.) as a child, I preferred to be in the background most of the time. Shy Lutheran kid, I guess. "Don't pick me, don't pick me," would run through my head as the tagger approached. She touched my head..."not me not me not me not me"...and moved on to the next kid in the circle. "GOOSE!" Away they ran. I was relieved.

You think this game ends with childhood, but it's been back with a vengeance lately. Whose body is more likely the culprit for our non-pregnancy? Post-coital test, duck. Acupuncture, duck. Pre-natal vitamins, duck. Try not to stress, try to relax, duck. But the hand is approaching, someone coming near. Someone is getting tagged this time. Semen analysis. GOOSE.

So the hand seems to have passed me by. But I am not relieved this time. I can understand why infertility tends to create such problems for couples; when you're frustrated that something you "should" be able to do naturally - something other people seem to do with little time, lots of tequila, or total carelessness - doesn't happen, it's easy to place blame. And the first person I blamed was myself.

I don't know why, really. Statistics say that about 40% of fertility problems are female, about 40% are male, and the rest are either a combination of both, or a total mystery. It was easier to blame myself, I suppose, because I could try to do something about it. I could take vitamins, try to relax, take my basal body temperature, stop using the hot tub, pray like Hannah, stop drinking wine (okay, that lasted about three months), try acupuncture, go to the doctor. It seemed like it should be me, since my body was the one not getting pregnant. But it turns out that I might be the duck.

And my beloved may be the goose. Which comes as absolutely no relief. One bad number in the whole lot does not hopelessness make, but it sure feels that way. Apparently there's quite a ton of the little buggers, and they swim like champs, but not enough of them are the right shape. Come on, people! Aren't we supposed to be all about diversity these days? God doesn't care what shape, size, or color you are - why should your eggs? But eggs persist in being quite choosy, it would seem. Damn.

Deep down, there is a bit of relief that I'm the duck. Not because I can blame him, but because it means that there's still hope. And it turns out that the only way I can envision carrying a child, at this point, is if it were my husband's. I completely understand why women choose donor sperm, and it might be that we will get to that point, but for now, even the distant possibility that there might not ever be a baby with his piercing blue eyes and stubbornness and kindness and cowlick is too much to bear.

Any doubt you ever had about your marriage rears its ugly head when things like this happen. I've never had any serious doubts, but still - who hasn't, in the midst of a crummy day, wondered if there could have been someone else? If you had married that ex-boyfriend, met someone different...would there be a baby now? Believe me, this is not a train of thought I'm eager to get on, but denying that it exists would be a falsehood. I love my husband. I don't want to be married to anyone else. And yet, even I wonder.

So now we head to a different set of doctors than the ones I thought we'd be seeing. Probably less testing for me and more for him - and maybe we'll send him to the acupuncturist for awhile.

It all makes me want to say...well, for the purposes of this post, we'll go with "Mother Ducker." Seems appropriate.