“All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I’d get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don’t want it anymore, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow’s sky. That’s what I want now…” ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans
I turned forty-three this year. As is customary on my birthday, there was not a lot of fanfare. I didn’t even have cake. Instead, the days preceding my birthday, I spent at the clinic listening to the words of my fertility doctor telling me that no matter how young I still looked, and no matter how healthy my lifestyle is, the woman’s reproductive system has no aesthetic look, and at my age, its function, is quite dramatically reduced.
Although there is nothing “wrong” with me, the fact is, I am forty-three, and to naturally conceive at my age is nearly a miracle, and even with the assistance of modern technology, the chances are still lower than twenty percent. Quite grim odds.
I have never felt older.
And I have never felt more angry. I am angry at having spent forty-three years of my life doing what I was told, trying to do the right thing, and putting others before myself. Even in the farce of a marriage with the alcoholic loser, everything inside me told me to leave, but I stayed because it was the “right thing to do” — I had to stay and “help” him with his issues, and in the meanwhile, I was losing pieces of myself in the process. Always, I had put others before myself. I always lived with the mantra that if I was good to the universe and to all people, the universe and the people would be good to me in return.
That has not yet been the case.
I am still waiting for a miracle and some sort of sign that the future will bring me all the happiness that I did not witness in my earlier years. May year forty-three be my year.