Our infertile years

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 00:59:00 +0000

My husband flicked the syringe to remove the air bubbles. Aside from hipsters lounging at candlelit tables across the street, the sidewalks were clear. If we worked together, I could shoot up before anyone walked by. By the glow of the dome light, I pulled up my shirt, unbuttoned my pants and swiped an alcohol pad across my stomach while he prepared the injection.

I held my breath, and he plunged the needle in my belly, ringed with the bruises that marked his love for me. For an upcoming fertility treatment, I had to inject myself that evening, during the hours I attended a book reading in Los Feliz. By the time my husband and I left the reception -- where the two of us going into the house’s sole bathroom would have perplexed guests – it was too late to wait until we returned home.

We’d been trying to get pregnant for more than a year and a half, starting when I was 33 years old. The cause of our infertility remained a mystery, and I couldn’t help but feel my body had failed me, the athletic and dependable body that had carried me through a triathlon, a marathon, hikes in the Sierras and reporting trips in Asia and Latin America.

Salon.com > Vanessa Hua

Our infertile years