Recently, I have become mildly obsessed with my ovaries. It used to be that I could go for months without consciously thinking about this particular portion of my anatomy. Occasionally, one of them would give a sharp “ping” as they are warranted to do in order to herald my monthly entrance into ovulation, and that would usually bring them to my attention, but overall, I have paid a surprisingly small amount of attention to my ovaries.
Things started changing rapidly this year as I passed my twenty-sixth birthday and began moving alarmingly fast into my late twenties. Tiny lines started sprouting under my eyes and creeping up around my forehead. Occasional knee pain and wrist twinges reminded me that I am easing out of my first flush of youth. However, I probably could have sailed by all this with relative ease had not the past few months seen a surprising amount of my friends marrying and reproducing with vigor. Just this week, I found out that five couples are getting engaged and three of my friends are pregnant. One of these friends, an old college pal, already has two kids and is expecting the third.
All this blissful pairing, copulating, and overall breeding has left me both depressed over my outstandingly bad luck at finding my own life partner and somewhat anxious about my dwindling capacity to bear children. I don't want to have any children after I'm 35 since the possibility of birth defects increases as dramatically as the energy levels decrease. With my 27th birthday just under two months away, that gives me eight years to have at least three children, the bare minimum I want. However, considering that I don't have a significant other, the likelihood is that I will not be in a position to actually attempt conception for at least another year or so, further diminishing the time span available.
Along with this, I am beginning to wonder if I will even be able to have children. A significant amount of “chick lit” published today features infertility problems fairly significantly; I recently picked up a book that mentioned in the second paragraph the main character's fourth attempt at IVF with her boyfriend ending in “a bloody red dot in the toilet”. Not too long ago, I read that an astonishingly large percentage of college women today are infertile. Just today I read that China has become so worried over its falling birthrates that it now has a program that will text women on their cellphones when they begin to ovulate as a reminder to copulate quickly.
My body's own cycle doesn't help matters much. For years, I have enjoyed what has to be one of the least troublesome cycle system know to womankind. After about twenty-eight days, I start to spot a bit in the evening. The next morning, the flow kicks in with vigor only to start tapering off during the evening. By the third day, I am usually down to a liner by bedtime, and the fourth day is usually almost clear. I can get by on just a few tampons and liners and a pad or two. This particular condition was never more than a cause for celebration, but recently I have began to fret that this means there is something medically wrong with me, that I do not produce enough to nourish an egg properly or that there is some strange growth eating away at my innards.
I know logically that all of this fear is entirely ungrounded. If my family is any indication, I come from healthy breeding stock and should have no trouble at all, indeed should have decidedly fruitful results in this area. I'm a virgin and therefore have not been exposed to a host of STD's that are often the culprits of infertility. I know that women regularly have babies in their thirties and forties. If the usual efforts prove futile, there are fertility drugs, IVF, surrogate mothers, and egg donors, none of which I am entirely comfortable with but am somewhat assured knowing that they are viable options. Finally, there are millions of children in desperate need of adoption, something I have quietly promised myself to pursue should I turn forty and still not be married.
But it is still quite difficult to ignore the quiet yammering going on somewhere in my loins, the little but persistent voices clearing their collective throats and squeaking, “Hello? Hey, what about us? It would be an excellent idea if you put us to use in the near future. We're starting to shrink down here. You don't have a lot of time left, and the clock's ticking, sister!” They holler extremely loud whenever I pick up one of the numerous babies at church, pass by a display of diapers, or begin to ovulate.
I'm fairly assured that in several years, I will be liberally spattered with baby vomit and chasing after a toddler all while attempting to keep morning sickness from adding my own vomit to the mixture. At that point, I will no doubt consider sterilization and heartily wish that my ovaries had kept quiet. But if you excuse me, I need to make an appointment with my gynecologist.
