You can read Part 1, here.
Shortly after I got my first period, I started dreaming about pregnancy. No, not day dreaming. I was not one of those talk show teenagers who believed
psychotically deeply that the solution to all of their problems was a bun in the oven. No. My hormones were trying to trick me, but I was too smart for that. My reluctant career as a babysitter had taught me one thing; kids are kind of a pain in the ass.
The pregnancy dreams were vivid, nonetheless, and I came to enjoy them. The idea of taking care of a baby didn't appeal to me, but the feeling of being pregnant did. You see, in my estrogen fueled dreams, I was filled with the light of a million fairies. I was warmed from within and I shot light and joy out of every pore. It was the happiest, calmest, most unearthly thing I had ever experienced. I can totally understand how hapless, young girls are seduced by this ovulatory cocktail. It was powerful.
As a part of the dream, I was always made pregnant through no fault of my own. I was also, not raped. I fancied myself the Virgin Mary, I suppose. Anyway, this elaborate monthly movie that played out in my sleep left a deep imprint on my nascent maternal brain. I didn't realize how deeply, until I was confronted with the facts of my fertility situation.
As a child of teenagers, who were the children of teenagers before them, I assumed that pregnancy was something that manifested totally by happy accident. Family planning? I was shocked, SHOCKED, when it became clear that my uterus would not respond positively to the very first drop of maritally delivered semen it received. I also thought that my adolescent avoidance of an unwanted pregnancy had been because of my superior intellect and careful use of the pull-out method.
My introduction to the world of assisted reproduction was soul crushing, on a couple of levels...