Happy Birthday to me

This post has been knocking around in my brain, begging to be let out I feel. I have been stifling it because I have a constant battle within myself of wanting everyone to treat me nicely because of my birthday and being uncomfortable with a lot of attention or maybe just uncomfortable with people thinking I’m fishing for attention. I don’t know. 

When I wake up tomorrow I will be 30 years old. 

It’s not that 30 is that old, though it definitely seemed older when I was a kid. It just feels like a really significant landmark. The 20’s have become kind of a continuation of adolescence. My mom was a wife and mother at 21. I’m not sure I could have been trusted with a plant at that age (which is probably why I didn’t get a cutting of Dad’s Christmas cactus until I was 26). I also feel like the growth of the 20’s is a gradual progression. Now somehow I’m standing atop a proverbial cliff with no choice but to be an adult and out of time to get my shit together.  As I express this, it’s occurring to me that I’m a married homeowning licensed professional. I even supervised my peers for a couple years in there. That should qualify as having my shit together, especially seeing as many people my senior can’t say that. So maybe I’m being an ungrateful brat. 

I think I’ve just spent a solid 200 words tiptoeing around the fact I’m taking 30 so hard because I thought I would have had children by now. In fact, I believe I told Hubby when we got married I would be done having children at 30. In the infertility world 30 is definitely pretty young but it’s not met with the same shock as twenty-something. 

 A birthday is a sort of personal new year. I usually find myself reflecting on the past year and looking forward to what another year has to offer. Oddly enough, I get to start my new birth year with meeting a new OB/GYN. A pelvic exam isn’t quite how I envisioned my birthday but I had to take what was available. The last time I saw my previous GYN was the day she referred me to reproductive endocrinology. I got a letter in the mail that she gave up the OB aspect, which became kind of a divine intervention. I have an opportunity to be able to go to the #2 OB/GYN hospital in the country should I need it. But what troubles me is that I should have done this a long time ago. I didn’t like my GYN from our first meeting. Didn’t like her approach and really I didn’t feel like she was listening to me. It’s no surprise that my infertility care was delayed. I met the definition in September, which at 27 should have been an even bigger deal, but it was deferred 3 months, and then another 2 with the promise of Clomid. When I went to her in September, I was the healthiest physically and emotionally I had ever been. I crossed the 50 lbs lost mark at weight watchers. I was exercising regularly, and I felt powerful. During the interim between our December and February appointments, the “ruling out” test of course revealed my banana shaped half uterus.  4 months after I met the definition I was given an appointment scheduled for another month later. At that appointment we were given instructions for testing that took a month to complete. A month later we were scheduled for an appointment, you guessed it, in a month. Seven months after we qualified for infertility services, we had a treatment plan. A lot happened in seven months. Stress at work and a rush hour commute allowed bad habits to creep in and workouts got missed. I was 14 lbs from meeting the BMI requirement. Then 4 days after our treatment planning appointment, Dad had his first major episode with metastatic liver cancer to his brain. The rest, of course is history. 

I know I could drive myself crazy with the what ifs and of course there is nothing that says those 7 months would have made any difference. What I do know, however, is that I can no longer be afraid to rock the boat. I can’t stay in situations where my needs are not being met for fear of seeming difficult. One thing for darn sure, is that it’s time to trust my gut. 

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