Birthday Girl

I’ve never been the type of person who advertised or was excited about her birthday. Well, maybe up until I was 21. But after that, I never really cared – it was just another day spent in school or at work, and I was too busy with life to make a fuss or have a fuss be made over me. If my family wanted to take me out to dinner, that made me happy enough.

I thought turning 30 was soooo cool; I loved my life at that age. When I was 31, oh I had a fantastic year. I was even proud to say I was 32. Sure, I’d have my moments where the acceleration of the passage of time would hit me: “OMG I can’t believe I’m already in my 30s…man I’m OLD! Wasn’t it just yesterday I was stumbling home and puking my brains out after having too many Patron shots in celebration of the end of final exams?!?!”

(Yes I still get drunk, and yes I even occasionally puke – but you get the point.)

Well, I recently came upon my 34th birthday. And when the day arrived, I woke up, stayed in bed, and sobbed…and sobbed…and sobbed. And sobbed again. My phone was busy with happy birthday calls and text messages – all of which I ignored. It wasn’t a “happy birthday” at all. It was a horrible birthday, the worst birthday I’ve ever had.

Now, I have NEVER cried about getting older. But this birthday – this day – I was bonafide depressed, and couldn’t get out of it. Not because I am getting older per se, but because I am getting older while the rest of my life remains held back and on hold. I can’t move forward in my career – the career I so badly wanted. I turn down work because it will interfere with an IVF cycle. I can’t plan trips with friends. Hell, I can’t even plan a damn spa day with girlfriends. I avoid certain people and places because I am sick of putting on an act when the “So…when are you two planning on having kids?” question comes up. My husband never knows when he should request vacation time. The prior vacation times he’s received were wasted because we were stuck in town awaiting treatments.

My last birthday, I was still a happy person. Everything in our lives had fallen into place. True, by that time we were in the care of an RE, we were “infertility patients,” and all three IUIs had failed. And though I was terrified of IVF, and didn’t want to be one of “those people” who had to use IVF to get pregnant, I still had hope – no, CONFIDENCE – that IVF was going to be the answer. Because hey, we were “young,” and they couldn’t find anything wrong with us, so IVF was sure to work.

At least I’d finally have a child, and would be able to move on with my life.

And fit in.

And not feel like an awkward outcast at every social situation where the mommies would cluster together and I’d be left out.

At least I’d have a 2010 baby.

At least I’d have my first child before 35.

Hell, maybe by 34, I’d be pregnant again with #2.

So when I turned 34, 365 days later yet not one step closer to being pregnant, not only with no answers, but more questions instead, it hit me hard. I am one year closer to being in the next box, the 35-and-over box, the box where they say my chances of ever conceiving, even with the most advanced treatment medicine has to offer, plummet. If my chances were so good over the past year and it didn’t work, why should I think that it will work during the next year? Do I give up when I turn 35? Do I give up now?

I am now ashamed to admit my age. Now, when people think or say, “You should hurry up, time’s running out!” I have to agree with them.

Thanks a lot, IF.