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"The Season of My Infertility"
To read more of Lori Shandle-Fox's Trust Me: Laughing IS Conceivable blogs, CLICK HERE.
Okay, I wrote the title and already I'm depressed.
I love autumn. I think subconsciously it's a self-love thing. I have odd hair that changes from blond to brown to red all by itself. So somehow I think I've always fit into the autumn. (Why people don't pack up the family and head to my house every October to see my hair turn colors, I have no idea.)
Autumn outdoors is beautiful. The autumn of your fertility is a lot less attractive.
Normal fertile people love to discuss their biological clocks. "I'm 34. I'm starting to hear my biological clock ticking. Quiet. Can you hear it? Tick tick, Tick tick. I'd better get pregnant. Oh look I'm pregnant. Whew that was close."
When you're diagnosed with infertility AND you're in your 30s AND you've been doing fertility treatments, AND nothing's happened, AND a few years have gone by, the biological clock turns into a frickin' gong. It's like living with your head stuck in the Liberty Bell, yet ironically, the last thing you feel is liberated.
Well I didn't get married until I was 39 and a half. (Only two categories of people say their ages in half years: People under 8 and women over 35 who want to have a baby. The people under 8 do it because they just can't wait until their birthday. The women over 35 do it because with each passing moment they picture another one of their eggs turning into sawdust. We would tell you our age in minutes if we thought we could get away with it without getting slapped.)
After trying mightily for a year to have a baby the so-called "normal" way, I realized that my eggs were a year older than they were when they walked down the aisle and that a few were "no longer with us." (Maybe they were captured on the wedding video. I'll check.)
My biggest gripe with infertility in general is the gigantic question mark. You never know what you're getting into or how long you're going to have to be into it. That's the worst part of being an older mother-to-be-one-day-soon-I-hope-when-the-fk-is-it-going-to-happen-already? You have no way of knowing how many eggs you have left or which ones are in good shape and which ones have turned into Pixy Stix powder.
Once you're over say, 37, you don't need a doctor. You need a psychic: "I see 50 good eggs left that will remain good for another five years."
"Okay, great! So there's no hurry for fertility treatments. We can just screw around (as it were) for at least another four years. Thanks. Here's your five bucks. You really earned it!"
All of these high tech fertility tests and procedures and treatments. All of these fertility doctors. Isn't there anybody who specializes in just taking a flashlight, looking up your woo-hoo and telling you how many decent eggs you have left?
Isn't there some easy do-it-yourself home device? It doesn't have to be anything complicated. It can be an "As Seen on TV" item. "Ova-the-Counter" — Just 3 Easy Payments of $19.99. And if you order now, we'll throw in a second one free!" (Why would anyone need two? One for each ovary? Or have they had a rash of women whose hands were shaking so violently while trying to read it, they dropped one in the toilet?)
"And that's not all... If you order in the next 10 minutes (start clock on screen) you'll get this handy "Ova-the-Counter" carrying case (Where would you be taking the damn thing? To work so you can count your eggs on your lunch break to see if you still have the same number as when you left home that morning?) It can also hold bobby pins or odds and ends, and it drains spaghetti..."
I'll be like any resourceful woman — If I can't find an "Ova-the-Counter," I'll just have to invent it.