I am thirty-nine. I’m not really sure why I’m still alive. I thought my youthful self-destructive habits would without a doubt leave me dead before thirty. Die young; stay pretty.
I’ve lived a life of extremes. Sex, drugs, rock n roll, the whole shebang. Multiple mental hospitalizations in my late teens and twenties. I was beautiful; thus, I was doomed. These days are marked with an absence of dramatics and histrionics. My days are quiet and each morning they stretch before me and time slows. I struggle with violent mood swings, panic attacks, paralyzing depressions and hallucinations.
I wake up fighting and after that split second where I think everything is okay–well, then the world comes crashing down. I’m married to the man of my dreams. I am blissfully happy having him in my life but I can’t help wanting more for us. When we decided we wanted to start a family, I was thirty-five and so naive to the perils of reproduction.
I spent a year tapering down on my psychiatric medications in order to prepare for pregnancy. When we were finally ready, we were thrilled to get pregnant on our first try. My husband and I were over the moon–until our baby was diagnosed with a fatal chromosomal condition. Devastated, we elected for a second trimester termination. They told us it was a fluke, so we started trying again. We never dreamed that after all that, we would be catapulted into a nightmare of pregnancy loss and infertility. This is my sad attempt to tell our story.