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Nobody Told Me Getting Pregnant Would Be This Hard

The full-on awkwardness of seeing a fertility doctor as a lesbian.
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I’m not pregnant.

Ironically, if I were 17, this would be cause for celebration. However, when you are ready for a baby and you can’t just materialize one out of thin air, an empty womb feels like an empty heart.

In January, I started the process of trying to get pregnant. I did my research and found a fertility doctor online. One chilly morning, I rang her up.

“Doctor’s office,” the receptionist said, unsurprisingly flat.

“Hi, I’m calling because I’m a lesbian, and I’m trying to have a baby.”

“Sorry, what?” the girl asked, as if she’d never heard the word “lesbian” before. “Do you want to make an appointment to see the doctor?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Are you infertile?” she asked.

“No, I’m just a lesbian!” I rolled my eyes and set a meeting for that Friday.

One on One with the Doctor

When I sat down across from my petite doctor, I asked her for a pen and paper to take notes. She crinkled her nose and smiled the same way a child might if a monkey at the zoo threw a banana at its cage. If I’m being totally honest, I didn’t know the first thing about getting pregnant. I didn’t even know that you could only get pregnant during ovulation.

The doctor explained to me that a normal woman in her 20s who has sex on a regular basis only has about a 25 percent chance of getting pregnant.

“You don’t start from 100 percent, you see?” she said, trying to adjust my expectations. “Now, let’s have a look at your ovaries.”

“Huh?” I said, totally confused.

“I’m going to do an ultrasound and see what we’re working with,” she explained.

Giddyup… It’s Time for the Stirrups

She took me into the exam room, and I lay down on the table. In every movie I’ve ever seen, the doctor puts some jelly on your belly and checks out your insides—so I simply jumped on the table, expectantly. The doctor looked at me sideways, shook her head at my naiveté, and said, “Virginia, I need to go inside you to see your ovaries. Here is a robe. Take everything off from the waist down.”

“Oh!” I said, suddenly remembering that I had not shaved my legs.

She walked out and came back a few moments later to swizzle a giant ultrasound stick around inside my hoo-ha. Luckily, all is well in the chicken hatchery. Despite not seeing sperm for eight solid years, my lady parts did not shrivel up and fall out.

Who’s Your Daddy?

The next step was to find a baby daddy. Let me tell you, when you write a sex column on The Huffington Post and announce in advance that you are planning to get pregnant, you receive a lot of unsolicited offerings for cum. However, I really wasn’t looking for a sperm donor from my Facebook fan page. Thanks, but no thanks, gentlemen.

Therefore, my wife and I camped out on the comforter one Saturday evening and started our search. Sperm banks have really adapted well to the digital age. With a few clicks you can buy photos, medical history, and in-depth interviews to find your very own tube of Mr. Right. We decided that we wanted to find a Latino donor, because my wife is Guatemalan. It’s very important to her that she share some sort of heritage with our baby, who will not carry any of her DNA.

After looking at hundreds of disappointing profiles, we felt discouraged. The selection of Hispanic sperm is dismal. I guess that most American ladies aren’t looking for someone named Guillermo. I mean, I felt that if I clicked on one more blue-eyed, blond-haired aspiring actor, I might toss my laptop out the window. But then we found him: the Colombian Marlon Brando.

We Have a Winner!

We listened intently to his audio interview, actively scanning for any sign that he might be a psychopath. Turns out, he loves lasagna. Surely anyone who loves lasagna can’t be a threat to humanity! Listening to him was like pulling a beanbag up to a campfire to hear Grandpa tell stories about life in the “Old Country.” He seemed familiar, and both my wife and I sort of fell in love with him. It sounds crazy to say it like that, but honestly, when I heard his voice, my body responded. He’s fucking sexy.

Get on board the baby train! The next stop is “baby baking.” Stay tuned for what it’s like to get inseminated. See you real soon!

Originally published by the Huffington Post on May 17, 2013

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