Shortly after writing this post, the Universe looked down upon us with mercy, a sperm and egg met spontaneously, and I became pregnant again. The first time I was pregnant was after almost 2 years of trying; unfortunately, there was no heartbeat at our first ultrasound at 7 weeks. That winter was stark, and we approached last spring with renewed hope, only to find that the ascent up the metaphorical mountain was too steep. When my mother-in-law gently checked in on how we were doing months later, I firmly told her that we just have to accept that we might not have any children. We’re not going to try Clomid or IUI or IVF?…her expression seemed to beg. (That was in early September, and I had just turned 37. We took a 3 month break after my D&C and resumed trying to conceive at the beginning of 2014.) At that point, we had only done exploratory labs and procedures for a fertility work up, but I still hadn’t come around to trying any medical intervention. Maybe if I didn’t get pregnant by the end of the year, I may have succumbed to giving Clomid–the gateway drug to advanced reproductive technology (ART)–a try.
The turning point was our Sierras trip, during which I basically decided to “give up.” We took a trip to the Olympic Peninsula and started looking at a future not dependent on whether I might get pregnant. To be honest, though, I never really gave up; I just changed my frame of mind. I stopped charting completely and taking any ovulation predictor tests, but I still noticed my cervical fluid. We even fit in a quickie before work on what I thought might still be my ovulation day–just for good measure. Then I let it go.
My monthly spotting ensued, and I was more or less resigned that I would expect my period. I already knew that no amount of Googling and reading stories about BFPs after spotting would change things either way. Then my spotting went away, and my period was expected the day we were going to fly to Hawaii. I was nauseous that morning during breakfast with my in-laws before they drove us to the airport. I knew.
Sean wanted me to take a test; I didn’t. I was scared that if I got a positive test, that it could or would be taken away from me. I tested the next morning to appease him. It was positive, and that was when my pregnancy-after-infertility-and-miscarriage anxiety started. (To be continued…)