Did I Mention The Co-Pay Is Very Reasonable?

Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, the whole world knows I had a birthday recently. (Not that I'm complaining -- I haven't gotten that many birthday wishes since the year my mom brought cupcakes in second grade.)

This is also the time of year when I check in with my doctor and fill up on prescriptions for the coming year, including the all-important Bay-Bee-No-Hav, aka, birth control.

Now, I realize that fertility is a growing challenge for women in their 30s, and there's apparently a really terrifying chart that looks like Wile E. Coyote taking a short trip off a tall cliff which represents what will happen to my reproductive system in another five or ten years. (Although I may be an exception, given that my grandmother seems to have produced kids into early menopause.)

But I think it is JUST POSSIBLE that my doctor is laying it on a little thick. She asked, as she always does, about the MG + KP Plan for World Domination. And, as I always do, I said that we were thinking of kicking things off in a few years.

"Oh," she said, blanching to the color of her labcoat.

"What? Is that... not a good answer?"

"It's just you don't want to wait too long."

I don't say so, but no, of course I'm not going to wait too long. C'mon, who wants to start popping babies out on their 40th birthday? But my doctor seems to think I'm waiting for her to say something, so she clears her throat and continues.

"You know what happens to a woman's ovaries as she enters her 30s?"

*Enters* her 30s? I think to myself.

She shakes her head sadly. "They age. Harden into shriveled up raisins."

My mouth goes curiously dry as I listen to this.

"I had a patient, she coughed during a pelvic exam. Her left ovary fell out, hit the floor and cracked in half like an M & M."

I struggle to find words. "That seems... odd."

"Not really, it's all drying up in there." She points at my navel with her pharmaceutical-company-branded pen. "Like one of those Salvador Dali paintings with a melting watch."

"Really? I thought it was more-"

"Last week, an OB-GYN friend of mine went into the delivery room with a patient -- she couldn't have been more than 34."

"The OB-GYN?"

"The patient. She got up on the table, had her epidural, did her breathing... gave birth to a pound and half of sand."

"What?"

"Swear to God. But you know, she and her husband wanted to wait."

Then she scribbled something on my chart, flipped it shut and gave me the same smile she probably uses when her small child stands bereft over his just-dropped ice cream cone.

"See you next year!"