Embrace the beauty in living life unfiltered.

Thank you for reading my stories, laughing along, and being brave enough to share yours! 

the terms and condition

At my recent GYN appointment my doctor told me I should consider egg freezing. “Whoa, B, slow your roll. I’m pretty sure you’re implying I’m old and as a hot, young woman I take offense to that. Please refer me to another GYN with better assessment skills STAT.” Ok, that didn’t happen. Instead the words came out of her mouth and I sat on the exam table, loosely covered in a paper gown, took a big gulp and my eyes welled.

After the appointment I was left ever so slightly bummed that I am in fact at an age (as a single person) where this heavy topic should be considered. I did what most girls would do and I told my close friends. The women who got “it”, who knew what kind of gut punch that was (uterus punch would be more apropos) listened and winced because they knew it was a difficult thing to hear but also that the suggestion was based in reality. My lady parts are aging.

With much thought I chose to be proactive. I booked the egg freezing consult to hear the skinny. Questions I had included: Is this extreme over-caution? I’m not sure if you noticed how young and hot I am so feel free to say such and kick me out of the office for booking a consult years too soon. What is the treatment involved? What is the cost? Can I freeze those bad boys in my freezer because that seems like it will be a hell of a lot cheaper? When it’s time how do I tell “the man” that I’ve got this egg insurance plan? 2ND date? Ok, yeah, too soon. 5th date. Totally normal.

Plot twist.

Some lab work is ordered that comes back wonky and then I have an exam to check out the goods. Prior to the doctor sticking a yardstick of an ultrasound probe inside of me she makes a comment. She says the typical follicle count for someone my age is between 10-15. She has seen people on birth control have a slightly lower count. She starts counting the right side. 1, 2, 3. She moves to the left and I’m just rooting for my left ovary like “you’ve got this…give me 7 follicles, baby.” She starts counting the left. 1. She looks for more and just repeats 1. 1 follicle. I sit up and immediately ask if this is lower than the typical low of those on birth control. She very sweetly said yes followed by some other words I couldn’t hear because I was just counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, stop. I started to cry.

While not ready now it became overwhelmingly clear in that moment how much I’ve wanted to be a Mom. There are few things I’ve ever wanted as much as that. Ever. I called “my everything”, my sister and cried. She listened and empathized. I told a few of my closest friends. And now the Internet.

Waves of fear come over me thinking about when I’ll have to tell the man I’ll one day marry. This is not a desirable trait. Men who are looking to marry and start a family want a fertile Myrtle not a 4 follicle count struggling uterus. Of course had I not chosen to be proactive I would have been none the wiser and walked into a marriage happy as a clam with the idea of only good days ahead.

The fear got me thinking. Which is a funny thing fear does. It keeps you endlessly busy thinking about things while it simultaneously paralyzes. I’m familiar with this broad’s antics so I shut her up and wake up and I realize.

I realize that I’ve never wanted to walk into a marriage thinking life will be sunshine and rainbows. I realize that the man who is lucky enough to marry ME will not be fazed by the number 4. Or if he is, he’ll be just as ready as I am to sign up for the struggle, the infertility appointments, the heartache, all the possibility. I realize again and again that it will all work out perfectly. And more than ever, I realize come hell or high water I will be a Mom one day.

*The fact that I have a photo in my archives of me wearing a fake belly is 1. Weird and 2. so incredibly perfect for this blog. Mostly weird though.

the friends

the list