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I have been trying to look on the bright side of losing my Fallopian tubes. Because, otherwise, it doesn’t take much for me to cry. Julia Child, wherever you are, my heart breaks every time I see the scene in Julie & Julia when you find out your sister is pregnant. (This movie has been on a few times over the past few weeks. Coincidence? I think not.) So, true to my upbringing, my grief has morphed into a perverse voice—a realistic, morose commentary, if you will, on what is.

What could I possibly think or say that would make me smile about my inability to procreate without assistance? Well, not too much. But, there are some perks. For instance, ladies, eat your hearts out, because I have the ultimate hormone-free birth control method. Take that NuvaRing. And it’s 100% effective, baby! You’re jealous. I know. Not to mention, the “Rhythm Method” has nothing on me. IVF is about as frickin’ planned as it gets. (The Type A’s out there are twitching.)

And because I require assistance to get knocked up, I’m single-handedly helping our economy. This is thousands of dollars I may (or may not) have had to spend otherwise. You’re welcome, Obama. This alone may get him re-elected.

My chances of acquiring a female-related cancer have greatly diminished, which the gynecologist who performed my salpingectomy kindly pointed out in the recovery unit. Sweet!

And, perhaps above all else, it’s okay to have sex again. Yes, SEX! Not perfectly timed, pelvic inverting reproductive intercourse. No, no, folks. I’m talking about, “Let’s get it on.” (If Marvin’s voice didn’t just pop into your head right there, you’ve been TTC for too long.)

So, people, it’s okay to reach out and poke the silver-lining from time to time. Afterall, its gleam can be seen even through curtains of tears.