Leave it to me to think up an infertility tie in to the NCAA basketball finals. This year's finals are exceptionally exciting because Butler is my and my husband's "adopted" team. We live one mile from the school and have been going to games since we moved to the area almost nine years ago. And, Indiana's very own Notre Dame women will be in the finals in Indy on Tuesday. So, go Hoosier hoops!
I jokingly, but also somewhat seriously called working with our gestational carrier a "Hail Mary" shot. Nine embryos didn't get me pregnant and we had two left, which were implanted in her, our "last second" attempt, which bounced off the rim. We failed to win that game.
Here's an excerpt from the book that further describes a friend of my sister’s experienced secondary infertility and likened her quest to getting pregnant with a second child to playing basketball:
Since I was ten years old, my father had great aspirations for me to be a basketball player. Through hours of practice, I would dribble between chairs, run suicides (sprinting the lines of the court—brutal) and shoot from painted X’s on the concrete. The only problem was that I was never that great at basketball. Although my father would draw me intricate plays, the only thing I really could do well was play defense. I’d wave my arms in front of the offensive player. Through the years, I refined my defensive skills; I used every body part I could muster to block opponents, pick off opponents, and occasionally knock them down. I rarely had less than three fouls per game. My dad loved the energy, the gusto, and the overall fight for the ball. What does basketball have to do with having a baby? Everything. Defense is so engrained in my psyche that my hubby’s sperm are no match for the block outs, the picks, and the overall “you’re outta here.” No matter what position my husband tries, he just can’t get his sperm past my “shut-down” defense. I asked my doctor for an allergy test. Could I be allergic to his sperm? Do I just envision his sperm as the other team and knock them down before they get close? The doctor never gave me an allergy test. He told me his job was just to help my husband’s sperm get closer to a scoring position. Maybe I should have told him I was the best defender on my team. I guess it doesn’t matter. The doctor says he’s helping us get the sperm in scoring position, my husband is shooting the shot up, but our egg and sperm don’t realize they’re on the same team. For the time being, we’re playing a lot of basketball, with no scores.
Go bulldogs and Irish!