She's a super-freak (control freak, that is)

When my relationship with M started to become serious, the inevitable question of where we were going to live (we lived two hours apart) came up. It was I who decided (rather quickly) that I would move away from my hometown to live with M. Why? I wanted to seize control of the situation before it got out of hand, even if that meant moving away from my family and friends. That way, it would be my choice—not just something that “happened to me.”

The weekend M proposed, I knew it was coming. We had shopped for a ring several weeks beforehand, and my powers of deduction led me to believe this was the weekend. I was ready. Oh, was I ready. In fact, when we talked on the phone during the week prior, I even suggested we go on a hike somewhere in the area. Why? Because I wanted to ensure M would have a romantic place in which to propose to me. Yes, that’s right—I tried to plan my own engagement, for fear of having to wait too long. Little did I know, he had planned to propose during a picnic lunch, so it didn’t matter where we were before and after.

My whole life has been about control. Being a perfectionist doesn’t help; it means I not only have to be in control of everything that happens in my life, but it has to happen exactly as I had envisioned it. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m OK with the occasional mishap or delay. But I have to be prepared for the possibility of a mishap. My former roommate liked to tease me about something I said once: “I don’t mind surprises, as long as I know they’re coming.”

Fortunately (?), I was prepared for IF. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve always known there was something wrong with my ovulation, and I assumed it would take us longer to conceive than most couples. However, the part that kills me is that I have no idea how long. And I have absolutely no control over when I get pregnant. I can’t plan it. Perhaps the reason IVF is so appealing to me is because it happens under controlled circumstances. You don’t just sit around and wait for things to happen; you take an active role in trying to make your body work like it should. However, as many of you know very well, there are no guarantees in IVF. Which is why I know I need to exhaust all other options before taking that step.

You might have noticed that, however often I try to blow off the statistics, I’m sorta obsessed with them. Why? You guessed it—because studying the statistics of each treatment option is the only way I can pretend I have some sort of control over this whole process. Science (in particular, medicine) frustrates me, because it’s not cut-and-dry like mathematics—therefore, it’s more difficult to control. One and one don’t always equal two. In some people, they equal one or three. In others, one of the “ones” is actually defective, but we don’t find out about it for three years. And studies have shown that in some cases, one and one actually both have numerous unforeseen side effects. You get the picture.

So how do I take control of this situation? Well, I don’t. Instead, I analyze it to death, and hope that one and one, someday, will make two.