I am thirty years old…at least that’s what my birth certificate claims, at least. I don’t feel thirty. Mentally and physically, I seem much younger, say early twenties. You’re only as old as you feel, or so I’ve heard.
In the grand scheme of things, thirty isn’t “old” by any standards, unless you’re talking to a child and they think anyone over the age of sixteen is old.
I’ve written about this topic before, my age. If the good Lord and genetics enables me, I hopefully have a long life ahead of me. The world is my oyster. I have time to well, take my time for certain things, with the exception of being a cast member on The Real World, sadly whose cut-off age is like, 27 I think.
I’m getting off topic. I tend to do that.
I recently found out a good friend of mine is expecting her first child at the age of 31. I’m so happy for her and her husband, yet I’m insanely jealous for a number of reasons on which I will elaborate.
I’ve known this woman for years and years. We grew up together, spent hours upon hours doing all sorts of things: playing in her basement, recording our own radio talk show, co-writing a story together, getting into general mischief…you know, the basic childhood activities. It’s just that I always envisioned myself having a family before she did. She beat me to it. I’m displeased by this. Stupid my life, messing shit up.
At 21, freshly married, my now ex-husband and I talked about having kids; two, maybe three. Due to family history, I’m next in line for having twins since my grandmother was a twin. We started thinking of baby names for our would-be children. I started buying baby clothes and had my mother keep them in her cedar chest. However, we decided to spend a few years as a couple before we started makin’ with the babies, so 25 was the age we decided upon.
Well, twenty-five came and went, and we decided twenty-seven was the age. Yep, twenty-seven. I hadn’t been taking any form of birth control for several years and we’d use profilactics…when we remembered. I’ve also spoke in earlier posts about this and how there had been some close calls, meaning I think I had been pregnant twice, but due to incompatible blood types (me O negative, he…well, I don’t know what he is, but he must have rH positive blood, otherwise, I’d have some kids now), nothing happened.
Twenty-seven came and things started changing for us as a couple. Tensions were building and some circumstances brought a distance between us. The talk of kids was no longer a subject, which I guess is moot now considering we’re no longer married, but I still would like kids.
But then, true to form, life never goes as planned, which is half the “fun” of life.
Medically, I’m kind of a wreck. My limbs are betraying me (thanks knee and foot) and over the past few years, my menstrual cycles have been interesting, to say the least. They have become more frequent, as in a “normal” cycle comes on an average of every 21 to 28 days. Me? Ten to fourteen days. Yep. Ladies, I have two, sometimes three periods a month. How about THEM apples? I can hear your all shaking your heads in sympathy now.
I’ve been tested for numerous things and it’s been discovered that my hormones are wonky. I don’t mean to get gross here, but I’ve got to explain this medically: due to my frequent cycles, the lining of my uterus doesn’t completely shed. A recent ultrasound showed that a normal uterus should be 5mm thick by day 5 of a period; mine was 10mm thick. Also, I have a fibroid tumor (benign) that has grown considerably and cysts on my ovaries. See? Medical freak.
What does this all mean? Well, I get to start a super fun cocktail of hormones this week that will hopefully get me back in sync hormonally and get things somewhat normal again. The cysts are relatively harmless, so that’s not a big deal.
The fibroid, however, is.
This thing is big. Enough that the ultrasound technician told me after my procedure that “your doctor will be calling you because this is definitely an issue.”
Neat. Thanks. Word of advice: don’t tell this crap to hypochondriac.
So, true to form, I’ve been researching and this thing can prevent pregnancy. I could have to have a hysterectomy.
My body is betraying me.
To tell a woman these things, that she is doing a terrible job of being a woman is not an easy pill to swallow. As little girls, we all have the same stereotypical dream: get married and have babies.
Well, I did the marriage thing and fucked that up and now it looks like I’m fucking up on the second part, too. Typical Erin.
I’ve tried to not let this bother me, because I’m in no place to be bringing a life into the world. I can barely take care of myself let alone a helpless infant, so I have tried to keep a positive attitude towards this, but I gotta tell ya, I’m failing at it.
I can hear my biological clock and if I may use a nerd analogy here, it’s five minutes till midnight (everyone loves a Watchmen reference, don’t they?).
I feel…useless, like I’m defective.
I know that maybe having kids isn’t in my grand scheme of things. It’s not the end of the world, even though it kind of feels like it. There’s adoption as an alternative, which I’ve considered before, but selfish me wants a child of my own. One that I created. One that will maybe have my grey eyes or silly nose or long fingers. I’ve never been much good at anything, but I like to think I’d be a great mother, showering my kids with all the love and affection they deserve, but I sit here with a mass in my uterus and I think I here it laughing at me, mocking me in a way.
“Nice try, lady! Think again!”
Fuck you, too.
I found out all this information last week and then to hear my friend was expecting kind of slapped me in the face, so please forgive my sour mood as of late.
But, like I said, what is meant to be will be and I’ll have to accept whatever is given to me. I also have to be grateful that all these issues have prevented me from having kids so far, as I wouldn’t want to put kids through a divorce. Sorry, little Henry, Owen and Lily, but your daddy is too busy playing video games and ultimate frisbee this weekend, so you don’t get to see him. I know, babies, I know you’re sad, but Daddy made some bad choices and I’m so sorry it affects you…
See? I’m sitting here whining when things could be so much worse. I’m not a big religious type. I have my doubts/concerns/etc, but there was definitely something bigger than myself preventing me from getting pregnant with my ex, and as difficult as that is to accept sometimes, I’m humbled by it, too, because I know I would be in jail now for trying to murder him with my car.
That’s a different blog post for another day.
So. That’s all for now. Again, not a religious person, but if those of you could maybe throw in a good word for me with the Big Man, that’d be super. Oh, and one for my friend, too, and hopes for no complications during her pregnancy.