Then, I got a terse letter from my insurance company. The prescription I’d submitted for my Clomid had tipped them off: My “ovarian dysfunction” was infertility, and as such, they were through covering my tests, lab workups and doctor visits. I was on my own — and on the hook for certain procedures already performed.

Still, we kept at it, with more expensive tests and more rounds of Clomid. At our nurse’s urging, we attempted intrauterine insemination, where a washed specimen of sperm is injected into the uterus. I had five healthy follicles and Steve had above-average swimmers. I didn’t even blink as I wrote out a check for $800. I was so sure we’d get pregnant this time.

We didn’t.

‘Diminishing options’
After this failed attempt, our nurse told us she couldn't do anything more for us. She suggested some big-name reproductive endocrinologists and we made an appointment, although Steve and I were already starting to verbalize some of our doubts. What were we doing? Why were we trying to force my body to do something it so clearly didn’t want to do? Would we change our minds and try in vitro? And the big question: Was our reluctance to go that route an indication that we weren’t cut out to be parents?

We went to our appointment with the big-time doctor, who seemed chagrined by our refusal to do IVF. She sent us on our way with a prescription for Follistim and urged us to “think hard about our diminishing options.”

When the Follistim arrived via FedEx two days later, packed in ice and with a handbook of instructions, I put it in the refrigerator and told Steve it was there, ready for us.

“Let's take a break,” he said. “I think we need some time off from this stuff.”

We took a break from the fertility treatments — and from each other. Steve and I retreated to opposite ends of the house throughout last winter, stewing in our thoughts, our grief and the knowledge that had been crystallizing for months: I was probably never going to give birth to our child.

Interactive Learn more about the techniques used to help infertile couples conceive a child.

Sure, the science existed to make us pregnant, but Steve and I knew we’d had enough. We didn’t want to throw tens of thousands of dollars at procedures that had no guarantee — not when there were so many children in the world that needed homes.

In February, Steve and I went on a cruise to the Caribbean. The winter break from the Seattle gloom is a gift that Steve’s company gives to its employees and their families every year. I had been dreading it for months, sure that I'd be tortured by the pitying looks of the new moms at the company. I was certain I'd feel trapped, a childless outcast surrounded by happy families.

Not just about giving birth
But a funny thing happened on that boat: I loved it. I loved watching the kids play, and playing with them. I delighted in kayaking with our friends' sixth-grader and playing sea monster with another friend's 6-year-old. I realized that in all my feelings of loss and loneliness, I'd forgotten the most important thing: I wanted to be a mother more than I wanted to give birth.

I got an e-mail the other day from a dear friend of mine. His wife had just delivered their third child. I felt a little pang as I clicked on the pictures of their new, beautiful baby girl — but I don't have much time to feel sad these days. Steve and I are immersed in conference calls and mountains of paperwork. We're full-tilt down the path to international adoption.

It's been almost two-and-a-half years since Steve and I started our quest to be parents. And at this rate, it'll probably be another 18 months before we have a baby in our arms. But this time around, we're OK with the wait.

At the end of this long road, there's a child waiting for us — the child we were meant to have.

Kristin Kalning is a technology editor and games columnist for MSNBC.com. She lives in Redmond, Wash., with her husband, Steve, her dog, Sophie, and her petulant cat, Jinx.

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