Oh gosh, it’s time to face the music and even I — the penultimate denier — know it. My husband and I are having a very uncomfortable conversation. It’s the one about seeing a fertility specialist. I desperately do not want to go. The roles here are reversed: usually the man is the one that’s reluctant to get tested. I’ve always been squeamish about medical stuff and now we’re talking about a very private, internal part of my body. Let’s just say the imagery is not enticing.

But the husband is visibly frustrated. Why, oh why, I wonder, can’t things just be easy for once? Why do I always come to the fork in the road where I either have to do something unpleasant in this baby business, or I have to contemplate divorce? It’s a question that will recur many times in the future on this crazy journey. Honestly, I have no idea if divorce is a palatable option to the husband, but I know the stats. The main cause of divorce is money; the second is children. I am painfully aware that marriage is a partnership and that this is one of those huge compromises that I’ll be making if I want to stay married. And I unequivocally do.

This is why we end up in Dr. G’s spartan office that’s painted hospital-issue-peach with its pathetic baby wallpaper trim and 1980s computer monitor that looks like it can’t turn on, never mind compute. Ugh. I am not inspired nor confident. Oh, but she is! She is horrified that we have waited so long to conceive and lectures us on the stats. We leave her office crestfallen, with requisitions for a battery of tests, mostly that I have to do. (One thing I cannot get over is how nice other specialists are and how forceful and superior infertility docs are.)

I don’t know what to think at this point. I am disbelieving of the fact that I could be infertile. I mean, how is this possible? There is no infertility in my family; my mom had her last child in her thirties! Can it be that I’ve reached the past-due date? Are my eggs shrivelled up, grey-haired little things that don’t have the strength to pop out of my ovaries? Am I all cobwebbed and mothballed inside? Has that ambivalence I’ve always felt indeed an indicator of the fact that perhaps I’d never been fertile in the first place?

Well, we are about to find out. Oh joy.