In the midst of infertility treatment, I refused to tell people my age. I was young, very young. A fact that every reproductive endocrinologist I ever saw was always happy to tell me. I know that my age made my fertility doctors hopeful for a few reasons.
It made my chances of becoming pregnant higher as maternal age is a predictor of success and I had age on my side.
There was time to work with; the doctors didn’t feel as much pressure as they would if I had been older, with my ovarian reserve diminishing each month.
And I felt old at 26. Old, incapable, insufficient, blighted. Old, old, old.
When I would meet someone, I would not mention my age. When it came up in conversation casually, I would not tell people my age. When I was asked pointedly, I refused to tell people my age. I would smile and say that it wasn’t something I talked about. I had one friend who truly was driven crazy by my refusal to tell her and I admit to a fairly medium size dose of satisfaction out of torturing her about it. After all, I was feeling my age in ways that she never suspected. Anyone who wanted to know my age that badly was not going to be someone I wanted to share my infertility pain with. No way.
Infertility ruined every birthday for six years. I hated my birthday, more even than New Year’s Eve, which was also an official marking of time. Every birthday confirmed my feeling of how old I was. Old, not young. Because it was clear, quickly with infertility treatment, that age was my enemy. I was beautiful at 26, lovely unlined skin, graceful and strong body. The pictures I have of myself of that age do not tell you the whole truth. Think Dorian Grey. Think of how that portrait aged and became scarred and ugly. That was how I felt. At 26, I felt old and ugly.
Therapy helped. Yoga helped. Friends who were able to listen and not advise helped. My best friend in the throes of her own infertility helped. My family helped tremendously. My mother helped. For my 30th birthday, my present was her Grandmother’s diamond wedding band. Having my mom pass down an heirloom to me at that time was critical. It wasn’t being saved for my sister who one day might be able to give her grandchildren. It was being given to me, with love and affection for who I was, right there, in the middle of being old and ugly. Boy, did that help. Thanks Mom!
Fighting for how I felt helped too. That is was ok to feel how I felt. That I didn’t have to judge how I felt on top of feeling how I felt. In yoga, we observe our breath, not to change it or judge it, but to notice and even appreciate it, just as it is.
And that’s where I got. I started to have moments of appreciating my strength, beauty and yes, youth. Moments when I was 27, more moments at 28. And I remember feeling quite lovely, beautiful and young at 31. Much younger than when I was 26.
Tomorrow I am 49. I understand that it’s a significant age. Multiples of 7, prime numbers, cycles of 7. All I know? Is that I feel beautiful. And young.