The Autumn of Fertility- The Lousiest Season

There's autumn autumn. Then there's autumn of fertility. I love autumn 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 nature's splendor in my changing fall follicles, I have no idea.) autumn

Autumn outdoors is beautiful. The autumn of 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 thirties AND you've been doing 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, but there's not a thing liberating about it.

Well I didn't get married until I was thirty-nine and a half.

(Only two categories of people say their ages in half years: Kids under eight- which is adorable, and women over thirty-five who want to have a baby- which is disturbing. Kids under eight do it because they just can't wait until their birthday. Women in the autumn of fertility -that's women over thirty-five- do it because with each passing day we picture another one of our eggs turning into saw dust. 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 regular 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, thirty-seven, you don't need a doctor. You need a psychic:

"I see fifty good eggs left that will remain good for another five years."

"Okay, great! So there's no hurry for treatments. We can just screw around (as it were) for at least another four years. Thanks!"

All of these high tech tests and procedures and treatments.  All of the 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 device? There must be some "As Seen on TV" item. There's an "As Seen on TV" item for everything.

"Ova-the-Counter": Just 3 Easy Payments of $19.99. And if you order now, we'll throw in a second one free! One for you and one for a friend!"


I'd buy it. Or invent it. Shark Tank would be all over it, I'm sure.

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