Six years ago today, the Projected Pops asked me out on a date. Or did I ask him? I don’t know. I do know it involved late night bar food and cider beer and a single red rose. Probably, he wore his then-uniform love-bead necklace and I sported pigtails and we both got carded for being plenty old enough to drink but not yet wearing our ages in those little wrinkles around our eyes, the lines in our foreheads, our stray gray hairs.
We each lived in these little apartments decorated to suit our post-collegiate fancies: to wit, his jam bands and hers 70s feminist kitsch, futons for couches (and guest beds) and cupboards full of just-add-water-and-shake pancake mix and Raman noodles. Our hugest dilemmas? His place or mine. Thai take-out or Korean. Beach weekend or camping trip.
Apropos of nothing, but just in time for the anniversary of us, our hugest dilemma? I’m not pregnant. Again. In fact, I’m so not pregnant my period arrived a day early. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day. So we decided to move on to the next phase of treatment: IUI with Clomid, plus Ovidrel. Not because it improves our odds (which it doesn’t, though it does increase the odds that, if we do get pregnant, we’ll get pregnant with multiples) so much as insurance says we have to before we’re allowed to move on to IVF and expect coverage for it.
Which we do. Because we live in Massachusetts and, lucky for us, our state believes, as we do, that infertility is a medical condition deserving of coverage under each and every health insurance plan. We’ve got ourselves a mandate. So hoop-jump though we must, we shall. Because, thank G-d, we can.
This Valentine’s Day, sitting side-by-side on our matching living room furniture in the tastefully-decorated house we share, we updated “The Running List of Pimp-Ass Names,” which, these days, reflects the plenty of time we’ve had to carefully consider our progeny’s monikers. Perhaps, it’s a set-up. (Like, what if we never have any?) But maybe, as I like to think, naming our kids makes them a little more real.