I haven't really updated this thing quite like I wanted, mostly because I've been feeling extra whiny. Lately I've gone from whiny to terrified about the idea of my mortality, so we'll just talk about that instead of my insane, seething jealously of all the pregnancy ladies.
I should probably also note we've passed the 12 month mark, now it is just a problem of settling on a doctor and accepting the fact the one that I want (that everyone here wants) does not take my insurance.
Back to mortality. I know it may befuddle some but I am a mere mortal. A little back story, I've always been mortal. It's the shits right? What I mean by that is, I've always been intensely aware that myself and everyone/everything around me is going to die.
I remember being very small, maybe three years old, and my mother would put me to sleep and I would find myself completely overwhelmed by the fact that she was going to die someday and I didn't know when. I'd start quietly crying hoping no one heard me because I didn't want to be the bearer of bad news and have to tell my mother that someday she was going to die, like it was some sort of secret and if I didn't tell anybody they would all continue being happy and worry free.
Side note: I was also convinced my razor burn from trying to shave my legs when I was 5 was smallpox and quarantined myself in my Grandmother's bathroom at a family Christmas and did the quiet weeping/panic thing. I didn't want to tell anyone and ruin Christmas or run the risk of them getting infected by trying to get me medical attention, I was a goner and I wasn't taking them down with me OR ruining Christmas. Little martyr I was, or just a very strange slightly morbid child who watched too many late night Discovery Channel specials on disease.
Small pox aside, every few weeks I would realize something I really loved was going to kick the bucket eventually. This could be a beloved cat, a butterfly I put some particular importance on, a cousin, my brother, my parents, extended family, our nice mailman who used to leave packets of sugarless gum for all the kids in their mailbox, or one of my brother's toads. The simplest attachment to something meant I had to worry and panic about the fact it was going to die.
Nothing had a small meaningless death either, I hand colored a couple shoe boxes for various caterpillars I kept as short lived pets. I buried them in the yard and wailed and screamed about their too short lives for the rest of the day. My poor mom.
It got worse when I went to school and they informed me plants were living things, summer would end and everything around me was dead. Yes, I was weird.
Now as an adult I only get the mortality blues once in a while, I got over the constant fear of dying after losing a close friend in high school, and for the most part I go randomly about without any impending doom theme-song playing unless I'm in a car.
That was until I hit the 12 month mark. The 12 month mark of trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant hit on Christmas Eve (seriously timing, could you be worse?) Ever since then I've done what I do best, the worst case scenarios. Maybe I'll never have kids? Maybe I'll have 12 miscarriages? What if we go completely bankrupt because IVF is the only thing that works and it takes ten times and we hate each other by the end of it and we're so poor we couldn't afford a kid anyway. I know realistically it could be as simple as a couple months of Clomid, but I like to plan, and planning means also planning for the worst in my baby-rabies addled opinion.
All this stressing came to a point yesterday morning when I was thinking about all the nifty stuff I'll pass onto my kids if they happen, and suddenly it crossed my mind that I will totally, without a doubt, die someday. F*ck.
I spent all day keeping my mouth shut in a sort of horror. Just like a kid, I didn't want to put the burden on my husband and make him realize we were going to die, because really who wants to know they're going to die? Everybody knows it, but who wants to know it in the way it infects your entire thought process.
Of course that would boil over, apparently my resolve to worry alone is broken by sharing a bed with someone who is peacefully sleeping and completely unworried about their eventual demise. Needless to say when I couldn't sleep and started crying I had to pass it on. For some reason, passing this kind of worry on doesn't really work.
Maybe I couldn't pass it on, because by the time I decided to say what was worrying me I had passed just worrying about death. I had realized (I hate my love for molecular biology) that if my husband god forbid died before me, he wouldn't just be dead, his cells would be dead, HIS CELLS! That somehow escalated it past a sad acceptance that my cat might die somehow to fear of waking up one day and being 80 and definitely knowing I'm going to die soon.
Apparently my stressed out, tired, PMS'ing brain decided to surpass itself and quietly remind me that I could die soon, never have a kid, and all I would leave behind is a cat. This is how I somehow got to the point of crying at midnight and seething with jealousy over the lady my husband will marry in the event of my early and abrupt death who will definitely be a fertile myrtle and probably get rid of my cat.
Yep, that is right you just read this entire morbid blog post to get to that point. This is what a lack of sleep, an extreme dose of PMS, a little low blood sugar, and a severe case of baby fever does to me.