A fertility doctor, an ultrasound technician, and 17 interns walk into a vagina…

There I was at the fertility clinic. Signed in, sitting there in the waiting room. Waiting. I’ve been here before—just a couple of days ago, and a couple of days before that, actually. And yet here I am again. There are other women here, probably waiting for the same type of exam, but we won’t strike up a conversation. Or even make eye contact. Nope. This is the weird unspoken rule in the fertility clinic waiting room: Silence.

Finally, it’s my turn to go in. Some clinics make you strip down and change into one of those ultrathin robes, while others merely ask you to forgo your undies in exchange for a little paper sheet. Either way, there’s nudity involved. Not the sexy kind.

With each visit to the fertility clinic, I’m never sure what the protocol is when it comes to the stirrups. Should I swing my feet right on up there before the doc comes in? That seems efficient. But also like I’m greeting my doctor with a vagina. Then again, is it weird if you don’t greet your gynecologist with your vagina? Because let’s be honest, we both know that part is coming.

“Scoot down a little further,” he or she says (at least twice if not more). One time I planted myself precisely in the right spot—no scooting needed. I was very proud of myself, but nobody said, “Scoot no further! Your aim was perfect!” It is strange if I think about it (and trust me, I think about it). I’m sitting there, exposed, legs splayed out in stirrups like some equestrian gone kinky, and someone else is there! A stranger! Checking my insides. Live. Am I properly groomed? I wonder. Is there some sort of standard?

Next I say hello to my good friend “Wanda,” aka the vaginal ultrasound wand, or as I prefer to call it, the penis camera. For those who’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Wanda, it’s basically a rod connected to a machine with a screen, relaying moving images from your insides. The rod is usually covered with a condom topped with industrial amounts of lube, then inserted (hopefully gently) into your vagina. Then it’s moved around every which way in order to proceed with getting an image to check for a variety of female reproductive parts and processes. It can feel odd, but it’s bearable; for me it usually felt uncomfortably breathless, like some sort of uterus Spock grip. I always tried to just grin and bear it, smile and nod, because I wanted to seem cool and collected, as one does with her vulva on display. Mainly, I want to get it over with smoothly.

IÆve never liked gynecological examinations, but here I am, a veritable expert in the stirrups, years of experience under my belt. (If one were allowed to wear a belt during a gyno exam, that is.) I’ve experienced unexplained infertility and unexplained secondary infertility for a total of 11 years or more, including miscarriages, continuous two-week waits, emotional roller coasters, and probably a touch of PTSD from it all.

I honestly don’t remember how many rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI) I’ve gone through. Somewhere around five. All of them unsuccessful. For each, I got an abnormally long tube shoved up my vagina while amped up on hormones in order to get inseminated with my husband’s top crop of sperm. During the more-complex in vitro fertilization, of which I did one round, I was under anesthesia so I didn’t feel anything during the egg retrieval procedure. I should add that after the IVF egg-retrieval procedure, my recovery from anesthesia began with me screaming like a deranged farm animal because I felt like just a floating head and was completely disoriented and scared. I apparently startled the whole recovery area, and several nurses had to crowd around me to handle the situation. (At the IVF embryo transfer a few days later, I assure you I was completely personable and lovely.) At some points, I really felt like some alien in a sci-fi movie, poked and prodded by white-coated strangers—although by choice—all in the name of having a baby.

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