I didn’t know if I’d blog about this date or not…but it’s weighing heavy on my heart today and it’s unavoidable. There are so many stories in my head and I just need to get them out.
August was nine months ago. It doesn’t seem possible that so much time has already passed from getting that positive pregnancy test, getting married the same day and having what can only be described as one of the best weekends of my life.
Of course we all know that it tanked about a week after that. Call it what you want–a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage–I was pregnant and today was supposed to be my due date.
Instead I’ve been on the phone with a fertility pharmacy ordering Lupron to start a donor egg cycle. My how things can change in nine months.
I didn’t know how I’d feel today but if I were hard pressed to find three words I’d have to say I feel empty, vacant and barren.
I can’t remember the date I found out I was pregnant/the date we got married (it was our second marriage in CA for legality issues), but I remember the fucking due date. Sometimes I think I just block August out because what’s gone is gone and I can’t bring that back.
That bit of a baby never made it and there’s never going to be a bit of a baby that my body made. Never. That dream is gone, but god if I don’t ache for it daily.
Because of that one stupid positive test I still believe that if, if, if I just had more money to spend on all of this, I could get pregnant. Who am I kidding?
If I could do things differently, I certainly would knowing what I know now. I would start drugs from the beginning. I would move to IVF sooner. Could’ve, should’ve. Didn’t. Did I lose the chance of having my baby because my ego believed “I” could get pregnant naturally?
There was nothing wrong with me thank you very much. Just hand me the sperm and we’ll be done with this baby-making business soon enough. I wasted so much time at such a crucial age where time-wasting is not allowed.
At the same time, I’ve been so freaking lucky. I have never had a cyst, a fibroid, an anything. There have been no surgeries and no forced breaks. I ovulate on my own every single month and I’ve had normal periods my entire life.
I have low FSH, I passed the Clomid Challenge with flying colors. I am in excellent health. So what the fuck is the problem? Is it because I swear too much?
I think I’m just a wee bit old and while I naively thought I could just magically pop out a baby (or, gasp, two!) by 40, I failed to take into consideration that I don’t have a free, fresh supply of sperm in my bed every night. All of my peers who have managed to accomplish this pregnant-naturally-late-in-life-task are in a different category than me. They have a free backstage pass to rockstar sperm night. Me, not so much.
After the BFP, I thought “well, I did it once, I can do this again”. But I couldn’t. Didn’t. Can’t. My cycles went a little off-course and I removed myself from the madness. Enough. Done.
I could keep trying. I could spend all our savings trying but that seems a bit foolish seeing we waited so long to start trying because we wanted to make sure we had enough money.
It’s like running in circles chasing dollars. If we were going to go broke doing this then we should’ve done it five years ago. And we didn’t. For so many reasons, not just money, we didn’t.
And they were the right reasons, so now we live with that.
I envy all of you who met your loves early in life and knew what you wanted and just got on with it. You are truly blessed. I was never that person.
Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the process of all this TTC shit; the planning, the components, the RE visits (76 of them for me, but who’s counting?), the co-pays, the drugs, the waiting, the tears–I actually forget the end result will be a real, live baby.
Dear April 30th, I hope when you come around next year I don’t even remember you because I’m too busy with my baby.
Dear Blogosphere, Thank you for always listening and being there for me. I can’t imagine how horrible this would be without all of you. When I fall, you always catch me.