By Rachel Kramer Bussel for Ravishly.
For my 40th birthday, I bought myself a $200+ fertility monitor. No, it’s not a glamorous gift, or one I’m particularly proud of — and it’s definitely not something I’d ever ask anyone else to purchase for me — but it’s a symbol of investing in the only thing I truly want as I enter a new decade: a baby.
Yes, there are other ways to determine when I’m ovulating, but I both want and need all the help I can get in highlighting my fertile days. On the other hand, with a freelance income that fluctuates month to month, that’s a lot to spend, but it feels like the right thing to do, if only to make me feel like I’m being proactive.
Up until now, I’d assumed that getting pregnant would be a matter of time — and, well, sex. It took me the previous two years to convince my boyfriend, who’s never been as gung-ho on parenting as I am, to give it a shot. I’d assumed that would be my biggest hurdle, and that once he agreed to stop pulling out, we’d be one of those couples who beat the infertility odds.
I hoped that even though I only started down this path last year, at the tail end of 38, nature would kick in if I simply wished hard enough. Foolish? Perhaps, but the mere idea of wading into the morass of fertility treatments and products seemed so utterly daunting that I put it off and off and off, until I simply couldn’t live with ignoring it any more.
Thankfully, I live near a fertility specialist’s office. Less promising is the fact that my insurance plan, which I’m eligible for as my boyfriend’s domestic partner under his full-time job, will only cover basic lab work, but nothing specifically related to fertility. I’m in the middle of undergoing those tests that will be reimbursed (as is my partner), and once those are completed, the doctor will advise me what my options are — likely fertility-enhancing drugs such as Clomid, or IVF (in vitro fertilization). If I decide to go one of those routes, I will probably have to use a credit card.