The reproductive arts are a young man's game, and I am an old woman.
As I cast my elderly, ancient eyes back in time, I realize that it was only one year ago that James and I signed up for our first IVF. I was a new 35, so sprightly that my doctor said we could just consider me (and my probably success rate) in the 30-34 year old category.
Two weeks ago our third IVF came to an end. With my body thirty pounds heavier than this time last year, and full of gallons of natural and unnatural hormones -- some of them produced from the urine of post-menopausal women! -- I'm beat.
I'm resting. When you see my posts not appearing on this blog, know that it's because I'm not moving my arms that day. I'm napping. I'm taking a break from society. I'm regaining my balance.
Yes, you may send me chocolates. That would be fine. Or watercolor sets. Shrinky-dinks. You get the picture.
I'll see you when I wake up.