Dear Aunt Flo,
Let’s not dance around it—you’re not the most popular visitor in our lives. In fact, I’d say you’re pretty much universally disliked. I don’t know a single woman who relishes the thought of “going with the Flo” each month. You’re a real thorn in our sides, and dealing with your antics is nothing short of exhausting. Tampons? They remind me of tiny cotton torpedoes. Pads? They make me feel like a toddler again. And those menstrual cups? They sound like something out of a bizarre vampire-themed party.
Then there are the cramps, the bloating, the cravings, and the mood swings. You really know how to throw a wrench in the works, don’t you? Most women can agree—you can be a real pain.
But for those of us grappling with infertility, your presence transforms from merely annoying to downright torturous. It’s like you take pleasure in reminding me of what I’m missing.
I desperately want another child. There, I said it. If wishing could change my situation, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, all while preparing dinner for a bustling family of six (even if it’s just ramen, I wouldn’t care). I adore my twin boys; they are my world and my little miracles, and I am truly fortunate that modern medicine made their existence possible. I’m obnoxiously #BLESSED to have them.
Yet, there’s still that longing in my heart. I envision my boys eagerly pressing their hands against my growing belly, feeling their new sibling kick, or cradling a tiny baby in their arms. There’s a void that aches for another child.
And this is where you come in, Aunt Flo. Those monthly cramps? They’re not just annoying; they’re a painful reminder that once again, I haven’t conceived. You remind me that my body isn’t doing what it’s supposed to do, as you prepare to shed my embryo-less lining.
I can’t stand you.
It’s more than just the cramps or the mood swings or the hassle of feminine hygiene products. It’s the cruel mind games you play. Why do your symptoms have to mimic those of early pregnancy? Every month, I convince myself that maybe this time will be different. I trick myself into believing that my PMS isn’t a sign of your impending arrival, but rather an indication of a little life I long for.
I tell myself the cramps are an embryo settling in, that the bloat is due to pregnancy hormones. My sore breasts? They must be gearing up for nursing. Those chocolate cravings? Obviously, they’re for the baby. And when you start to rear your ugly head, I cling to the hope that the spotting is just implantation bleeding.
I even Google it—because, you know, it happens in 30 percent of pregnancies. I torture myself every single month, reading about symptoms and calculating due dates, dreaming of the perfect announcement with my boys in matching “Big Brother” shirts. It’s an ugly, masochistic cycle, and I am utterly exhausted.
Just when I think you won’t show up this time, you come crashing in, ruining my hopes like a party pooper. So, here I am, writing you this letter of frustration. I know it may sound a bit insane (infertility can do that). You’re just a natural bodily function, not a sentient being, so you’ll never read this.
But other women will. Women who share my frustrations, who are also struggling to conceive, and who need a way to channel their anger and disappointment. So, on behalf of all of us:
Enough, Aunt Flo.
For anyone navigating these murky waters of infertility, remember that there are resources out there. For instance, if you’re looking into home insemination options, check out our post on the home insemination kit. And for those seeking to boost their chances, fertility supplements can be a helpful addition. If you need more information about fertility treatments, Johns Hopkins Fertility Center is an excellent resource.
In summary, Aunt Flo, you’re not just an inconvenience; you’re a painful reminder of what I desire so deeply. But I won’t let you steal my hopes forever.
Keyphrase: Aunt Flo and Infertility
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]