After my second miscarriage, I spoke to a fertility specialist about what might be happening with my body. He listed things that might be wrong with me and/or with my partner, testing we (mostly I) could undergo, and what could be done if any of those tests revealed issues. "There is only a fifty percent chance of uncovering the problem anyway," he told me, and about the same chance that another pregnancy would succeed without intervention.
I went home to think about it.
I knew already that I would not undergo testing for the sake of reassurance, since nothing short of a healthy baby would convince me that I could make a healthy baby. I knew I wouldn't take "it's impossible" for an answer either. Haven't we all heard stories of miracle pregnancies on the heels of such dark diagnoses?
But what if they found something wrong and had treatment options at the ready? Where would I draw the line? There will be no injected hormones, no egg retrievals or donor eggs, no invitro procedures for me. I won't even use progesterone creams. Not that there's anything wrong with any of that. I congratulate everyone who's found success with these things. But it's not for me. If my body isn't prepared to make a baby, I don't plan to force it. Perhaps I'm too passive or too fatalistic, or too paranoid about western medicine, or perhaps I just don't want a baby badly enough, but this just seems like a slippery slope of financial and emotional drain.
There will be no first child in my forties either; I feel my age, my energy waning. I don't want to wait any longer. I want a child, but if it doesn't happen, I can move through the sadness and let it go. I'll find another outlet for my creative energy.
Less than two weeks after this became clear to me, in the midst of another baby-making attempt, my husband abandoned our marriage. It was painful, of course, but before long I was breathing a sigh of thankful relief for the miscarriages, for the fact that I wasn't pregnant again yet, and for the understanding that I would be okay child-free. It is strange how life can twist what looks like bad luck into good.
Of course, I know that the opposite is also true: what seems like good luck can also go sour. My "wonderful Mr. New Wonderful," as one of my dear readers describes J~, could lose his charm in a few months time. We could have a falling out. I could be pregnant and consumed by fear and regret. The practical thing would be to wait, to test our relationship further, to be less impulsive about it all. But I care very little for practicality at this point. My entire approach to my last relationship was practical. I played it safe for twelve years, struggling to elicit the kind of love and straightforward communication I receive easily now from J~. I was appreciative anyway, accepting of the flaws, and still, it blew up in my face.
I have no illusions that this new fantasy fabulousness will not change. Issues will churn up to the surface. We'll deal with them in our sincere and imperfect way. There will be added richness, no doubt. There might be unexpected tragedy, who knows. But it all comes down to this: I'm ready. We're ready. We're getting our house in order, literally and figuratively, and we're not afraid.
Speaking of being unafraid, I ovulated earlier than usual this month. This kind of unpredictable biological syncopation is exactly why they say the rhythm method doesn't work. We knew it, we risked it, and I have no shame about it. Yes, it would've been more practical to wait. But a week from now, if I discover that I'm pregnant, I won't be complaining. There will be hella logistical details to wrangle into place, to be certain. There will also be a great deal of celebrating to do.