They say it’s your birthday
Happy fucking birthday to me. If you don’t recognize this product, you’re lucky. Well…probably not, if you’re reading infertility blogs. Come to think of it, what’s a little protracted diarrhea compared to an IVF cycle, or a D&C? I take it back. I embrace my bowel prep with loving arms. (Next week, that is. No sense in rushing it. And no, it wasn’t an actual birthday gift, I just picked it up today. And tied a festive bow on it. Using some leftover ribbon from BFB’s baby shower for a dash of irony. ‘Cause if I’m going to have to look at it, it may as well be pretty.)
That said, I don’t want to turn 34. I know, I’m still young. I’m an asshole for complaining about turning thirty-four. I’m just so scared of crossing that damn 35 line. Even if it’s more of a statistical division than a biological one. It’s not like the day before I turn 35, my ovaries will be replete with top notch eggs, and when the clock chimes midnight, they’ll all mutate or die. But the part that makes me cry is that I have a whole year ahead of me in which I honestly don’t expect to get pregnant. By the time I’m done with my forced march of timed intercourse, it will be January. I expect to be completing IVF number one right before I turn 35, and I’m–for whatever reason–assuming it will take more than one cycle. Sure, things could work out better than I anticipate, but that’s not going to comfort me until it happens.
So I was moaning about this, and my husband said, Think of it this way. 33 was absolute shit. 34 will most likely be better. Even if it isn’t, it’s not like you want to stick around in 33. The sooner you get the hell out of 33, the better. That had the ring of truth… if it didn’t actually make me feel better.
So…finish your taxes, then have a big shot of something alcoholic in my name, if you can.