By KATE TAYLOR
Fertility treatment is a lot like doing the Nutbush.
You just follow the steps; left foot back, right foot back, left ovary stimulated, right ovary stimulated.
It’s fun at the start. You kick off with a whole lot of gusto.
But it just keeps going. And going. Keeping up gets harder, and then you start to wonder if it’s ever going to end, and someone please hand me a frozen margarita and show me to the nearest bar stool already because no amount of calf raises could prepare me for this.
Make that a virgin frozen margarita. Just in case the last cycle worked.
You’ll have to guide me to that stool while you’re at it too because I’m blind.
Being blind doesn’t define me, just the same as undergoing fertility treatment doesn’t define me. Even though on the days of scans, injecting hormones and going to the clinic it feels like this is who I am now. It’s not.
What defines me is in itself indefinable. But there are bits I can pick out. Writer. Wife. Vegetarian. Aunt. Germ freak. Sister. Blogger. Runner. News junkie. Tea drinker. Anxiety sufferer. Daughter. Recovering Milo addict.
I’m not just a 30-year-old who has to try really, really hard to have a baby. For absolutely no medical reason at all. Despite extensive testing.
I’m a spectacularly happy 30-year-old with a brilliant, brilliant husband who keeps me more entertained than an entire season of Modern Family, and an awesome job that keeps me busier than my fingers can type.