I’m not typically one to be upset by my aging. Death, in some bizarre twist of fate, does not scare me. My birthday since facing infertility though has been a tough pill to swallow. I had hoped to be done family building by now, even having married “late”. Yet, here I am, turning 33 in 6 days, and it’s all I can think about. I will not have children before I am 34. That is simply reality. I may, possibly, be pregnant by this time next year, but even that is too much to hope for at this point given my track record. This starts in on the math. How old will I be when a first possible child graduates high school? College? Marries? I’m going to be the old mom at school functions and play dates. Will I be able to keep up?
Is it fair to them, given my family history to even have children at this point? No one has a crystal ball, but given my family history it’s definitely something that weighs on me.
I’m just frustrated. Frustrated by being lapped. By being excluded. By living life on hold for something that is 100% out of my control.
I clung to the idea for so long that if I worked hard, I could change things. That things will get better. But it’s a lie.
Instead I get another year older. Lose another year of fertility. I sit and age, watching my fertility decline while I scramble to find the money to pay out of pocket for treatment of a disease I have no control over. Something I did not inflict on myself. All the while watching everyone around me pass me by, isolate me further and further away.
I’m tired of being lonely in my corner, but too fragile to deal with the emotions that come with not being in the corner.
Here’s to another year I guess.