After my first round of IVF failed, I got Real Damn Serious about preparing for the second. I’d already done months of acupuncture, cut out the God-forbids (sugar, gluten, dairy, GMOs), made green juice each morning, and hefted around a huge pillbox of supplements. But there had to be more I could do.
My descents down the Google rabbit hole unearthed possibilities: abdominal massage to make my uterus more welcoming; colonics to clear away any “cobwebs” that might be harboring conception-unfriendly toxins. Then, I found what seemed like the answer: the vaginal steam treatment.
Gwyneth had done it. Fashion magazines praised it. The “v-steam” was touted for improving all things female. I’m not one to follow fads, but could this be the explanation as to why I hadn’t gotten knocked up yet? Did my vagina just need a deep clean?
I had to know. I found a nearby spa that specialized in the v-steam. Its website photos showed a private room, perfectly dim lighting, warm stone walls, and a beautifully shaped wood chair. I imagined myself in this den of luxurious relaxation, gracefully perched on the throne with a hole in its seat. From below, spirals of delicate, fertility-boosting steam were rising toward me as I, a medieval princess, had my nether regions refreshed in order to conceive the next king or queen. I made an appointment for later that day and texted my boyfriend: Taking my girl-parts through a fancy car wash.
It’s a warm November night. Like many things in Los Angeles, both good and not so good, this spa is in a shitty strip mall. I enter the dark foyer and pay $40 to a smiling woman behind a desk. Compared to the savings account annihilator that is IVF, a $40 v-steam is a bona fide steal if it helps me get pregnant.
The spa is nearly empty. I look around and notice the place is shabby, sparse. Where is the throne? I wonder. It must be behind a door. This dingy décor must be because the owners put their resources into a fabulous v-steam wing.
After using the sauna, I tell the woman at the front desk I’m ready. She leads me into another area where an old TV atop a plastic crate blares a Korean soap opera. I see a door on the far wall. Here we go! But when the woman opens the door, cleaning supplies and toilet paper tumble out. From this storage closet she grabs a child-sized plastic chair with a hand-cut opening in the seat and places it in the middle of the room.
We are in full view of the entire spa. A few feet away, two employees sit on the floor, eating take-out and chatting. I am wearing a thin white towel. The woman hands me an oversized yellow poncho with Velcro at the top. She doesn’t speak much English. I speak no Korean. I can’t say, “But this isn’t like the pictures on the website.” So I drop the towel, take the plastic poncho—more like a trashbag muumuu—and secure it around my neck. It hangs below my knees. I see my reflection in a mirror—I look like Big Bird.
The woman pours boiling water into an electric pot under the kiddie-chair, and turns the dial to “warm.” I sit down and spread the poncho around me like a fan. My lady bits begin to tingle. Being the more-must-be-better kind of overachiever, I wave to the woman. She comes, feels the pot, and says the dial is right but she’ll turn it up if I’d like. “Yes, please.” Apparently I have a high pain threshold, something I’ve been told by both doctors and lovers. Soon everything under the muumuu gets hot, almost burning.
I try suctioning the vapors into my vagina, like I’m doing Kegels. I imagine them going up through my cervix, coating my uterus, enveloping my ovaries, making my eggs plump and ripe. I’m not sure how this is helping my fertility though, because despite all my squirming, the steam isn’t going inside me. Maybe it’s being absorbed by my pores? I relax everything below my waist, and try not to ponder the logistics. Spa newcomers stare at me as I sweat under the lights.
I ask for a cup of water. I flap the muumuu for air. I look at the clock. I thought I was supposed to steam for 30 minutes, but it’s been 45. My brain feels fuzzy. Perhaps I’m entering the critical v-steam phase? I feel trapped, even though I could stop anytime. I want this to work. I want to get my money’s worth. I desperately want a baby. Having my vagina steamed twice as long might make me twice as fertile, right?
I end up sitting on the plastic kiddie-chair, sweating vaginal bullets, for 75 minutes. Finally, when I can’t do it anymore, I tear off the poncho and sink to the floor.
When I get home, I have a raging headache. Am I dehydrated? Or is that my vagina releasing toxins? Although the v-steam was like an absurdist play and nothing like what I expected, I feel empowered: I have officially done everything possible now to make the second attempt at IVF a success.
**
In December, a month after my v-steam, I began the next round of IVF. My doctor had put me on birth control pills for a few weeks and then I went in for a vaginal ultrasound and blood work—all standard activities at the start of an IVF cycle. That night I was supposed to start hormone injections. But the phone rang a few hours after the appointment. “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “We got your lab results. You ovulated. We have to cancel this cycle.”
What? Isn’t stopping ovulation the Pill’s one and only job?
I was disappointed, frustrated, confused. I had never felt much distinction between me and my body. But now it had betrayed me, gone rogue. Infertility is a merry-go-round of answer-seeking and blame. The what-ifs are endless. Where I used to think of myself as many things—writer, dancer, friend, hiker, teacher, etc.—I was now finding it hard to keep the breadth of my identity, my personhood, in tact as I started reducing myself to the efficacy of my reproductive organs, and all the things I could do to force them to do their job. I tried to put the ovulating setback behind me, mentally and physically, and focus on next steps.
But in that moment, I was stuck on one thing: Did the v-steam make my vagina too clean? Too fertile? Did it prime me to ovulate, even on the Pill?
**
In February I finally did the real second round of IVF. During this cycle, I lost my job, my grandmother died, and my boyfriend ended our relationship. All within 48 hours. So when the nurse called to tell me my pregnancy test was negative, I was devastated, but not terribly surprised.
Even though there were obvious, grief-y reasons why that cycle might have failed, I kept prowling for answers, ones within my control. I couldn’t control the crappy things that life had hurled my way. But I also couldn’t stop wondering if I’d stopped v-steaming after 30 minutes instead of 75, would I not have ovulated on the Pill? Would I have done the IVF cycle in December, as planned—when I still had a job, a grandmother, and a boyfriend? Would the nurse have called with very different pregnancy news?
IVF doesn’t come with a baby guarantee. And often there’s no clear reason why it doesn’t work. Even so, after my second round of IVF failed, my mind became like a coked-out court jester, Rolodexing through everything I might have done differently, starting with v-steamed less. But also slept more, exercised more, worked less, relaxed more, worked more, exercised less, used a different doctor, eaten more kale. And perhaps most crucially: not looked so hard for things to blame.
With so much at stake—um, parenthood—it’s terrifying to feel like there’s nothing I can do to ensure it comes to fruition. But if I’ve learned anything from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of Infertility, it’s that things are out of our control. Even, often, our own bodies. Although obvious, it’s still a hard truth to swallow. I’m not looking for the miracle fix anymore. But I’m also not ruling out another v-steam. I mean, I looked hot in that muumuu.
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