I’m old. Really, really old. Over the hill. Past my prime. Shriveled up. I’ve slowed down, I’m stooped over. I’ve lost my vitality, I can no longer perform. It’s time to hang up the hat. My glory days have passed me by. I’m elderly.
My ovaries are, anyway.
I don’t want to believe it. It’s hard to believe. The rest of me is holding up quite nicely, if I do say so myself. My hair is still brown, with only the occasional stray grey. I’m in good shape- I have plenty of energy. I weathered a pregnancy pretty well- everything fell mostly back into place. My skin is doing great. I’ve studiously avoided the sun ever since reading a book on skincare when I was sixteen that warned of the danger of premature aging due to sun exposure. How’s that for vain? At sixteen I started wearing hats and gobs of sunblock. Drove everyone crazy. But I’m often told I look younger than my thirty nine years. I feel younger than my thirty nine years. After quickly becoming pregnant at thirty seven, it was easy to believe that my ovaries were defiantly youthful. Unfortunately, statistics and six months of trying this time around are forcing me to face the truth. My ovaries are sputtering out.
I am of “Advanced Maternal Age”.
So, my OB/GYN wants me to start taking Clomid to increase my ovulation or whatever the heck it does. And besides my reluctance to accept that my ovaries aren’t shiny and robust, diligently tossing out at least one egg a month on their little ovary assembly line, I’m not entirely opposed to the idea. Not entirely.
I’ve heard a few things. Like crazy mood swings and hot flashes. Painful, swollen ovaries. Hair growing on my face! And while I’d rather shoot myself directly in the eye with a b.b. gun than grow hair on my chin, its not even that that scares me. It’s…………..twins.
As my OB put it, “there is a risk of twins”, and risk is the perfect word as far as I’m concerned. I mean look, I don’t have anything against twins, per se. I’m not like, “Oh gross, look at those twins”. They’re cute, yes. It’s a miracle, yes. It’s two babies in one pregnancy! Does it seem like a nightmare to me? Yes.
One baby kicked my ass. One baby took my ass and beat it with a bag of oranges. Then it took my ass and shoved it’s ass head in the toilet six or seven times. Then it made an embarrassing video of my ass and put it on Youtube and it started a really bad rumor about my ass……… You see what I’m saying?
I have a friend who just had twins, and while I was breathless with excitement that twins were coming, I’ve watched her wincingly, out of one eye, as she’s navigated being a new mother-times two. She’s doing it. Finding her way and surviving. I don’t know if I could. Not with a super-kinetic toddler in the mix. So I’m hesitant. I’m thinking. Panicking really.
I’m running out of time. That’s how I feel anyway and again, statistics……
But I think I am going to call the OB. Get the prescription. It’s only a 10% chance. As a friend recently said, I can live with not getting pregnant, but I don’t think I can live with not trying.
But, oh lord, I’m only looking for one more……..