For obvious reasons, I've developed a hefty envy of fertile people over the last couple of years. No invasive procedures, no regular blood draws and weigh-ins (Weight Watchers is much cheaper, but I've heard they don't let you blame the stims for the weight gain and there's no dildocam), no daily play by plays of the inadequacies of your and your significant other's reproductive parts. Not to mention the significant cash savings the fertile enjoy. Fertiles can say just about anything and the rest of the population isn't offended. "There are millions of needy children out there and you're spending how much on fertilty treatments? Just adopt." Or "I can't even sit next to my husband without getting pregnant." Or "I'm sorry your 4th IVF didn't work out, or was it your 5th? Anyway, I can't wait to see you at my baby shower. I'm registered at Pottery Barn Kids."
What I really envy is their ignorance, and I say this--truly--in the kindest of ways. Fertiles get a positive peestick, then a bloodtest, then, ba-bam, they pop out a kid in 9+ months. Generally speaking, fertiles have no idea that a thousand things can go wrong. I envy that freedom. Infertiles know that it's touch and go, day by day, and to not even dare say the "B" word or plan a baby's room or, for God's sake, wander into a Babies.R.Us too soon. Infertiles know that a heartbeat is only as good as that day's ultrasound and that the next week can bring devastation. And we also know that no matter how many times we say "it's too early to get excited," "too much can still go wrong," our hearts get wrapped up in that little grain of rice sized life or lives exponentially more quickly than the timing of our next appointment.
Oh to be able to disassociate. To compartmentalize the joy that bubbles under the surface until the grains of rice become babies. To capture that part of yourself that knew you were going to be ok whatever the outcome before the outcome eclipsed your wildest expectations. If only those little heartbeats didn't make your own grow and swell and burst. There I've done it. Again, I've exposed my pale, vulnerable underbelly to the fickle hand of fate. Six weeks, five days and a million more to go.