39 and Counting

I recently celebrated my 39th birthday. And by "celebrated" I mean clenched my teeth through the entire workday till I was able to run home and sob droolingly into my pillow. 

I pretty much dread birthdays. Not other people's, mind you, just my own. Birthdays are like an annual holiday specifically set up for reminding yours truly that you're getting older, uglier, fatter, and exponentially less fertile. Now who wants cake!?

I know I shouldn't be so glum. Life is beautiful.. lots to be thankful for... and all that jazz. It's just that every year, as early April rolls around, I tell myself "this one will be different—this year I'll party it up, get drunk, and forget all my problems." I have the best of intentions. And it started out all right, with lots of cards and calls from dear friends and family wishing me well. That's all I really wanted. No fanfair necessary; just a slight nudge from my allies reminding me that I am loved. But for whatever reason, year after year, the day slowly degenerates into a pathetic pity-party for one.

Case in point: Highlight Number One this year included getting into a huge fight with my sister, followed by a long period of The Silent Treatment. Nah... I didn't really need her support as I get ready for the mother of all IVFs, right? Highlight Number Two involved leaving work early.... to get a saline sonogram. Because nothing says "party" like having your cervix dilated and shooting a bunch of salt water into your uterus! (Apparently the fibroid I've been harboring these past few months didn't get the birthday memo). To top it off, Highlight Number Three had hubby and I setting out for an intimate dinner at a charming French restaurant, only to be seated next to THE MOST OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD AND ANNOYING TABLE EVER!!! DID YOU KNOW THAT AT THESE PRICES, MARTHA FROM NORTH CAROLINA CAN AFFORD TO BUY FIVE HOUSES ON HER VISA CARD?!?!? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA....

Thankfully, this little tale doesn't end here. Lest you start feeling sorry for me, I should let you know that the dinner was saved by a kind maitre' d who apologetically seated us in the adjacent (closed) dining room. I felt like we were in our own private episode of "The Bachelor" as he lit the fireplace just for us. And to be honest, there's really nothing a warm plate of pan seared foie gras in espresso sauce can't fix. 

As for my sister, we ended up having it out, five days later, in a battle-royal-marathon-2-hour-phone-call. But you know what? I think we were overdue. Sometimes you need to insult people to their very core, cry it out, and make up to truly realize your love for someone. We are all the closer for it now.

And my uterus? I'm happy to report she got a clean bill of health. Turns out that pesky little fibroid is a non-threatening 2 cm, and situated in a spot where it shouldn't do any harm. 

After the exam, I remember lifting my feet from the cold stirrups and reaching for my pants. Just then, my RE turned to hand me an Always pad, smiled and said "Here... you'll need this. Happy birthday". Another year bites the dust.