Cycle day one, and I sit here stupid and unsure if I have the energy to keep going along this path. Maybe I’ll get pregnant again but if I could not produce a chromosomally normal baby at 36, I’m probably fooling myself to think it could happen at 39. I’m not sure if losing another baby would destroy me. I kind of think it might.
My husband and I were married in 2012 and decided we wanted a family the next year. I spent another year tapering down on my medication dosages in order to have a healthy pregnancy. My doctor didn’t know what she was doing, but I didn’t know that then. We later learned from a specialist that the meds I dropped were shown to be really safe during pregnancy, and the meds I took instead were associated with birth defects. Whack an entire year off of my fertility, who cares.
The medication I was on when I was pregnant with Molly would not cause a chromosomal disorder, though. It was nobody’s fault. We started trying to conceive in November of 2014. We got pregnant the first try. Looking back, I see how naive we were and I can’t stand it. I really thought we would have a baby. We moved to a two bedroom in a theoretically nicer neighborhood.
I will never have that innocence back. I will never have a pregnancy not fraught with waves of panic and the terror of losing something so incredibly precious. This makes me bitter and hard and I rail against it but I will still never never never.
2017 now, and I’m still here longing. My husband aches, too. And here, we are all alone.