Love, life and %#$!&@ (Part 1)

Struggling with fertility, in many ways, feels akin to trying to find love (ask me, I’m an expert at both struggles!). You spend a big chunk of your life expecting it to happen naturally, you dream up gargantuan Hollywood-ian fantasies of what it will feel like and you tell yourself that once you meet that special someone, life’s pretty much going to take care of itself.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

What happens instead (esp. if you’re a dramatic, ambitious and entirely unrealistic sort like me) is that on your 30th birthday you find yourself alone at the local liquor store to grab a bottle of vino and the old man behind the counter takes one look at your ID and exclaims ‘oh you’re thirty… wow!’ and you can’t quite figure out whether he’s feeling happy for you or sorry that you’re obviously celebrating alone as you glug the Irish whisky shot he offers gratis even before he can say cheers! What also happens is that after several years of dating a string of douchebags while all your friends waltz off on their gilt-edged honeymoons, you start losing hope that you will ever find someone. You realize that you no longer have the energy or the inclination to don vertigo-inducing high heels and gyrate with strangers in cavernous rooms with psychedelic lighting and that, horror of horrors, internet dating might not be such a bad idea after all. You get frustrated, then hopeful, then plain depressed as nothing works out and you find solace in Gai Pad Krapow and Ben & Jerrys chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. You long for someone to watch Seinfield re-runs with, someone to travel the world with and someone who will love you in your pajamas as much as he loves you in your LBD.

And then, quite suddenly, out of nowhere you find this guy -this charming, sexy, handsome guy who teases you, flirts with you and drives 50 miles every weekend (racking up $$$ speeding tickets in the process) to take you out on the most wonderful dates. You watch, jaw hanging, as he opens his heart to you and tells you in the middle of a nightclub that he can’t wait to be a daddy. You swoon as he goes down on one knee and implores you to marry him and make him the happiest man on earth. And one day, just like that, you wake up, turn over and watch your husband sleeping like a baby and you marvel at how perfect he is and how you love being his wife.

That’s when fate decides to fuck with you. Again.


FML. No, really.

As I stepped out of the house last evening for an acupuncture session after three weeks, I promised myself that I would no longer indulge my morose state of mind any longer. After all, there’s far greater shit out there that people are dealing with. Like Kim Kardashian’s compounded emotional upheaval of divorce round the corner plus Kanye about to propose plus need to procreate urgently since sis Kourtney has already popped out no. 2 (as in child no. 2 not the everyday stuff). Gosh.

No, seriously though. Kardashian woes aside, there is a lot of serious shit out there that people are dealing with. So I told myself to stuff the pity-fest, hold my head high and strut the street in manner of Carrie Bradshaw doing her thing. And I did. Only to get triple-slapped, Tom & Jerry style. Metaphorically, of course. For my practitioner was very visibly pregnant. Glowing. She was extremely nice about the whole thing, almost apologetic as she announced the fact. I was genuinely pleased for her. As I had been when my previous acupuncturist in LA had told me that she was pregnant. Or when the very first time I went for acupuncture the lady who treated me was 8 months pregnant. I’m not a hater; these are all extremely skilful practitioners all of whom have been very kind and helpful to me plus they are all really nice people. And I wish them all the very best.

But it does nothing for my already peaking frustration levels. As I walked out of the clinic, trying hard to look every bit as composed as I had when I walked in, I could not help but marvel at God’s intended message. Either he is desperately trying to reassure me that hey look all these women around your age are pregnant and so will you be. Or he has one twisted sense of humor.

Oh well. At least the PMS seems to have exited theatrically in a grand finale of thundering sobs. Standing ovation for the period which is finally here!!