And there I was in a room full of women, almost twice my age and quadruple my abdomen, reading about fit pregnancies. I comforted myself with make-believe: They’d each spent the past 12 or 15 years trying to get knocked up and at long last, miracle of miracles, G-d or science or some combination worked, by George, and they found themselves with child! The one possible exception was a slim, gray-haired gal who, before all was said and done, would prove herself to be no exception at all. Merely the rule: When you’re a Hopeless Infertile, even grandma-types will leave that OB/GYN’s office to congratulations and instructions for scheduling their next ultrasounds.
Divert astonished eye-bulge from Nanna-Mom. Heed Patient Questionnaire.
Have you been trying to conceive? Absolutely.
Are you sexually active? Very.
Have you ever been pregnant? No. Not so much as chemically. :(
Children? I wish.
Medications? Many, varied. It depends.
Questions, concerns you wish to discuss with doctor? Wtf gives?
To which she answers, in other words, in medical-ease, something that means “Eggs of Steel” before swabbing my vagina with a giant Q-tip. (Annual necessary evil and IVF insurance pre-requisite, check!) Eggs of Steel: a natural by-product of aging – aging, aged at not-quite-29! – and it wouldn’t be such a big deal if Projected Pops produced tungsten swimmers. As it is, though…
The suppression cycle has inspired snark and sex and Sauvinon Blanc with shabbat dinner. We’ve embraced our ugly and unfortunate, beautiful and just-right truth, thrown up our hands. This is the way it’s going to be. And in that truth, we’ve found what feels a little like liberation. I’ve got girl parts as strong as I.