What up biznatches? Word to your non-mothers.
Izzio here. I blog at Who Shot my Stork.
I'm a snarky political asshole who loves to talk back. I have to: Ninety percent of the people I work with are manly (read: lovable dumbass) men and 100% of the people I work with are tough. These guys walk through fire. Literally.
Infertility sometimes feels like being a smoke eater.
When you walk in that building, you can't see. It's hard to tell where to turn. And you don't know that you'll get out without a floor collapsing.
My husband has no vas deferens so we did surgery to extract the sperm. Now we have to wait until we can afford IVF. I'm not a veteran of the didocam or of injections. But I am a veteran of disappointment and anger and sorrow. Of putting of with those damn ferts who tell me to relax, that I'm young and have plenty of time. Those ferts who don't understand that adopting isn't for me right now. Those ferts that don't understand that maybe I don't want them to shove their fucking baby in my face and demand I coo.
It doesn't matter what kind of fire you are fighting - if you're infertile, we all come out with burns.
I believe it will make us stronger that we are together. We will drag each other out.
And if those ferts think that they can hurt me or my sisters any more, well bitches, you better watch out. We've fought fire. Surely we can take you too.