I’m a forty-year-old woman who wants a baby.
And to prove this, I’m going to detail everything I’ve been going through in order to try to have one.
Well, everything but the sex. That’s none of your damned business.
I live in Brooklyn. No, I don’t think it’s the coolest place ever. I moved here for love, (well, that and the fantastic IVF clinics on every fuckin’ street corner in Manhattan). Ok, maybe it was the union job that’s paying (well, mostly) for this in vitro craziness had something to do with it, too. Yay New York.
But I’m a country girl living with a city boy – goat farmer meets bond trader. No, really. He writes books now, and gets them published. I write and don’t get published. That’s how we met, actually. He’s got grown daughters. I have a dog – Nellie-the-wonder-whippet. We’re still working on the picket fence. And the, uh, baby.
Which has proven more difficult than either of us anticipated. After three failed IVFs – one missed miscarriage at 9 weeks, one ectopic pregnancy, one BFN and one spontaneous pregnancy that ended in miscarriage, and a failed FET – miscarriage at 9 weeks – I seem to be pregnant with help from a 22-year-old-egg donor.
I’m due in mid-September.
Shall breathe easily in, say, August.
August of 2028, maybe…