Highly unlikely. But not impossible.
That was the response from my gynecologist yesterday when I asked him what the chances are that I could still get pregnant at, ahem, my age. It wasn’t exactly the answer I was expecting. I think I was hoping for something more like, “very likely… happens ALL the time… especially with someone as vibrant as you… be VERY, VERY careful.” But no. He went on to share with me that my odds plummet even further – to miracle levels – once I hit 44 or 45. That’s just two years away.
Sniff.
Don’t get me wrong. In the last year, I have come to terms with the fact that I don’t want any more children. But hearing that I (almost) can’t have anymore is a slap upside the head that I’m slowly becoming a vast wasteland.
Each year my annual GYN check-up is a further reminder of my fleeting youth. About two years ago, my doc stopped asking me if I’m planning on having any more children. Come to think of it, he also never asks me if I have multiple partners any more! How offensive! I got that question every year in my early twenties! What? Do I not look like I could pull that off? Yeesh! These days, he wants to make sure that I get a mammogram every year. He asks if I smoke cigarettes. Next time I see him, he is probably going to ask me if I am experiencing any incontinence. And after that, he’ll tell me that I don’t need to see him at all because we all KNOW that old ladies don’t even HAVE vaginas! And to think I went to the trouble of trying to look nice for this man.
Alas, I have reached the tender age when my self-esteem requires a healthy dose of medically-based compliments. I need to hear about my low cholesterol, high metabolism, and strong probability that I could still conceive a child on the spot. On a more visceral level, the whole experience made me want to run straight to the nearest pole dancing class. For spite. And before the incontinence kicks in.
