(Start with "Monday" if you can. Maybe an extended snack break?) So what were we talking about? Oh right. I was extremely concerned about what National Infertility Week might really mean for those of us dealing with infertility.
Would there be an online registry where the public could enter their zip code to see all of the infertile people who lived within a ten mile radius? If so, I’d love to log on and try to somehow change the dot on the map that represented me to a hand gesture…Dots are so impersonal and that smiley face doesn’t quite say it.
My biggest fear was that here many of us are, in the suburbs, shooting up Gonal-F in the privacy of our own 2 ½ baths, and now some organization is going to unleash its millions of followers who have been plotting this mission since the first test tube baby 30+ years ago, like termites out of a jar, to infiltrate our peaceful communities (developments, sub-divisions, cookie-cutter estates…whatever you call these mundane alternatives to homelessness.)
I envision these faceless people running from door to door on my block waving a flyer with my picture on it. (I hope they use the one on this blog. I look like I’m up to something don’t I? Although they might have to age advance it… but never you mind about that.)
Up until recently, I lived in NYC. I’m not opening my door for any waving flyer…maybe if it had a cop behind it AND a police car in the driveway behind him. But here, on Donna Reed Street, people open their doors for everything. Especially for someone dying to say:
“We thought you’d like to know that there’s a woman on this block (we’re not at liberty to disclose her name but here’s a photo) who may not be able to have kids. Nothing to be alarmed about. At this point, we have no reason to believe that she wants yours.”
But do my neighbors really have to know my business? The “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy wasn't only for gay military personnel, you know. It’s the unspoken motto of Suburbia.
Neighbor #1: You don’t know about my fertility issues, and I don’t know that last Christmas Eve you and your husband were on the front porch at 2 AM cursing each other out under the mistletoe.
Neighbor #2: You don’t know about my fertility issues, and I don’t know that you drink wine with every meal and in place of many.
Neighbor #3: You don’t know about my fertility issues, and I don’t know that your tall nine year old is really an average-sized eleven year old in third grade.
Neighbor #4: You don’t know about my fertility issues, and I don’t know that you take the bus to work because your fourteen year old drove away in your four door luxury sedan only to return twenty minutes later in your two door sub-compact.
Listen, I gotta go. Neighbor #5 is knocking feverishly on my front door and I’ve got to hide my syringes…and start shredding. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.