I was precocious as a child. I feel like I need to say “was” because to be a thirty-something, precocious adult is just too much for words. I was always a bit different: all together a little too much. When I’d try something – be it bike riding, running for high school student government, or painting – if I fell short I’d simply quit. I preferred to be perfect and anything less just wasn’t worth my time. My father, who was rather encouraging back in the day, used to humor me with a pity party. A half of a red velvet cake and a thirty minute squall – I could drown myself in pity. But then it was pick yourself up time, get back in the game.
Yesterday, I drowned for a while. Instead of red velvet cake, there was a bowl of chili cheese fries and omigawd, were they good.
On some level, I was hoping that all of this fertility stuff was simply an exercise – an overabundance of caution. I tend to over-prepare, and thus avoid, many of the pitfalls that seem to affect folks like me – folks with mental and emotional problems. Being the overly optimistic spirit that I am, I had this feeling that everything would just work out. If I could prepare for every possibility, I would avoid having to experience any of them. And now…
One of the cruel things about infertility, is that women are told to simultaneously stay on top of the process: doctors, tests, temperatures, insurance AND relax, stay calm, be still. I think this may be the first step of being a parent: stay on top of the ball and stop to savor the moments. So, now it’s back to the reality of the situation. I don’t ovulate. My husband has a low sperm count. My dream of having a baby is still intact, we’re just taking a slightly rockier road. We’re meant to do this – this alternate path. We’re meant to learn something, see something, be something.
This I can do.