So what were we talking about? Oh right. So I went to my first doctor’s appointment with the Reproductive Endocrinologist. I won’t say they acted like there wasn’t a moment to lose, but when I mouthed my date of birth to the receptionist like people used to mouth “laxative” and “condoms” at the pharmacy or their social security number since the invention of rampant identity theft, she reached over the desk, grabbed a handful of hair and dragged me into the office. Apparently the only other alternative would have been to take me from the waiting room to the examination room by ambulance. (I wonder what my co-pay on that would have been.) I spent most of my time with the doctor wallowing in self-pity, wondering when someone on the medical staff would just get it over with already and call me “elderly” to my face or give my husband the address of a good reproductive hospice to dump me into in my final waning stages of fertility.
How could this be happening? This isn’t how it happens in People magazine. Celebrities get married at fifty, have twin status symbols “naturally” a year later and name them “Bolt” and “Lightning” . Hmmm. I wonder if there have been studies done on that: The high incidence of twins conceived “naturally” among celebrities. Maybe they’re hormone levels increase from the extreme need to keep up with the Brangelina’s. Maybe it’s the Pilates. My doctor went over a course of action with my entourage (aka my husband) and me.
First my husband would be tested. Okay, he’s fine and his ego’s never been better. Dandy. Back to me. Then I would be tested: To see if I had any female hormones left, any internal female parts left, any working internal female parts left or if everything had fossilized into a Museum of Natural History exhibit and left me looking on the inside like Jack Klugman looks on the outside. (Cute for a man but not for a uterus.)
If everything was present and accounted for, we could try procedures which included nightly injections, a dozen or so doctor’s appointments a month, (possibly for several months or even years), and a huge financial investment which would likely be dwarfed by the even huger emotional investment.
There were a lot of side effects to consider also…and not just from the hormones: Social stigma, relationship strain. I contemplated if I should boldly embark on this journey of anxiety and unknowns or meekly succumb to my age: Just fill out my AARP application and sit on the porch swing sipping lemonade, waiting to see if I got accepted. Ready or not, I chose the former. Do people ever get rejected by AARP? My self-esteem was hanging by a thread. I just couldn’t take that chance.
Listen I gotta go. My husband and I are rotating each other’s tires this weekend. I’ll talk to you Monday…