On the ride to work this morning, Matt asked me what I wanted for my birthday, which is less than a week away.
I told him that I didn't really want anything, or nothing big or special, at least. I told him that my Amazon wish list was up to date, albeit with small and uninteresting things, but things that I'd really love to get.
In my head, I asked myself the question again: "What do I want for my birthday?" And my head gave me a clear answer: "A baby. A house. Money to go back to Africa."
Ok, so suffice it to say that I have bigger things on my brain than my birthday present. Turning thirty was no big deal last year. It felt like an obnoxious but necessary milestone, and I made peace with the fact that thirty isn't really any different than twenty-nine, and everybody still looks at me and thinks I'm twenty-one or twenty-two anyway.
Way back when we first started trying to conceive, it didn't occur to me that we wouldn't have a baby by the time I turned thirty. And when we didn't have a family when I turned thirty, I shrugged it off. Because I turned thirty about the time that we were preparing to go to Tanzania, a trip that never could have happened if we'd been lucky in the baby department. And I turned thirty right in the middle of a solid plan with my OB/GYN to start Clomid and solve this unexplained fertility difficulty once and for all. So when I turned thirty last summer, I had an exciting, life-changing trip on the horizon, and a solid plan for having a baby.
But it feels like turning thirty-one is going to suck. Because one year later, this Tuesday, when I turn thirty-one, I still have nothing.
Now don't get me wrong. I have plenty. I have the best husband a woman could ask for. I have a good job, he has a good job, we have a roof over our heads and a crazy cat to come home to every night. We live close to family, I take joy in knitting and reading and blogging and going to the Arboretum and taking pictures. I am smitten with my iPhone and like playing board games. I am totally blessed. I know this.
But since my last birthday, we tried Clomid, and got pregnant immediately. And then it turned out to be ectopic, and I needed emergency surgery, which meant sacrificing the function of one of my fallopian tubes. And they found scar tissue that was probably the explanation for our "unexplained" fertility, and tissue that meant it was unwise to keep trying unassisted. And so we pressed forward with a first round of IVF, which is no small feat for someone who hates needles and blood draws with an undying passion. And we ended up with two blastocysts to transfer and two to freeze. And probability wasn't on our side. So after a first failed IVF cycle, we jumped into a FET cycle, using the two frozen blasts. And probability still wasn't on our side.
And so here we are. A year later, after so many blood draws and tests and injections and medications and "This is not a bill" mailings from my insurance company...
...no baby. Not even close.
And so in its own way, turning thirty-one reminds me of just how optimistic I was when I turned thirty...and life's not-so-funny way of dashing each of those hopes and possibilities.
So at thirty-one, I will be gearing up for a family trip to Disney World and a second shot at a fresh IVF cycle. I will be hiding all the facebook stories about all of my friends who are having babies or announcing second babies. I will be working so so hard to keep my mind focused on all of the good things in my life, and I will make the phone call to Lutheran Social Services of Illinois to start learning about adoption.
I really really want to keep a positive attitude and not let our lack-of-baby get me down. I succeed on most days. But today, I can't stop thinking about being thirty-one, and being another year older, and praying to a God who I'm a little bit angry at, hoping that thirty-one will be my year, and that I will turn thirty-two with a baby in my arms, or at least a big belly to contend with.
Thirty-one, let's make this a good year, okay? Pretty please?
I told him that I didn't really want anything, or nothing big or special, at least. I told him that my Amazon wish list was up to date, albeit with small and uninteresting things, but things that I'd really love to get.
In my head, I asked myself the question again: "What do I want for my birthday?" And my head gave me a clear answer: "A baby. A house. Money to go back to Africa."
Ok, so suffice it to say that I have bigger things on my brain than my birthday present. Turning thirty was no big deal last year. It felt like an obnoxious but necessary milestone, and I made peace with the fact that thirty isn't really any different than twenty-nine, and everybody still looks at me and thinks I'm twenty-one or twenty-two anyway.
Way back when we first started trying to conceive, it didn't occur to me that we wouldn't have a baby by the time I turned thirty. And when we didn't have a family when I turned thirty, I shrugged it off. Because I turned thirty about the time that we were preparing to go to Tanzania, a trip that never could have happened if we'd been lucky in the baby department. And I turned thirty right in the middle of a solid plan with my OB/GYN to start Clomid and solve this unexplained fertility difficulty once and for all. So when I turned thirty last summer, I had an exciting, life-changing trip on the horizon, and a solid plan for having a baby.
But it feels like turning thirty-one is going to suck. Because one year later, this Tuesday, when I turn thirty-one, I still have nothing.
Now don't get me wrong. I have plenty. I have the best husband a woman could ask for. I have a good job, he has a good job, we have a roof over our heads and a crazy cat to come home to every night. We live close to family, I take joy in knitting and reading and blogging and going to the Arboretum and taking pictures. I am smitten with my iPhone and like playing board games. I am totally blessed. I know this.
But since my last birthday, we tried Clomid, and got pregnant immediately. And then it turned out to be ectopic, and I needed emergency surgery, which meant sacrificing the function of one of my fallopian tubes. And they found scar tissue that was probably the explanation for our "unexplained" fertility, and tissue that meant it was unwise to keep trying unassisted. And so we pressed forward with a first round of IVF, which is no small feat for someone who hates needles and blood draws with an undying passion. And we ended up with two blastocysts to transfer and two to freeze. And probability wasn't on our side. So after a first failed IVF cycle, we jumped into a FET cycle, using the two frozen blasts. And probability still wasn't on our side.
And so here we are. A year later, after so many blood draws and tests and injections and medications and "This is not a bill" mailings from my insurance company...
...no baby. Not even close.
And so in its own way, turning thirty-one reminds me of just how optimistic I was when I turned thirty...and life's not-so-funny way of dashing each of those hopes and possibilities.
So at thirty-one, I will be gearing up for a family trip to Disney World and a second shot at a fresh IVF cycle. I will be hiding all the facebook stories about all of my friends who are having babies or announcing second babies. I will be working so so hard to keep my mind focused on all of the good things in my life, and I will make the phone call to Lutheran Social Services of Illinois to start learning about adoption.
I really really want to keep a positive attitude and not let our lack-of-baby get me down. I succeed on most days. But today, I can't stop thinking about being thirty-one, and being another year older, and praying to a God who I'm a little bit angry at, hoping that thirty-one will be my year, and that I will turn thirty-two with a baby in my arms, or at least a big belly to contend with.
Thirty-one, let's make this a good year, okay? Pretty please?
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