Well, I was going to write a post about economic melt-down and goodness me how the US senate needs to pass a that bailout bill, or I was going to write a thoughtful post about secondary infertility, but then I got my period this afternoon, so now I'm just going to write a pissed-off sad post about how much I fucking hate doing this trying to get pregnant thing again. Consider yourselves forewarned.
We've had seven tries at getting pregnant since I started ovulating again, including the IVF cycle. None of them have worked. And not surprising. I'm 41 and 3/4. I obviously wasn't Mrs Fertile to begin with. The endometriosis seems to be under control or gone but who knows if that's really true. It's not surprising. And it hurts a lot lot less than it did when we didn't have Pob. But it still hurts. Mostly it hurts on the day I get my period and the few days after, and the days when I have to make excuses with work. It hurts because somehow conceiving Pob made me feel invincible, that I had paid my dues and life would just go on from here, infertility remembered but not recurring.
But the dues are back and need to be paid again. I'm not one of those women whose infertility is cured by getting pregnant. I'm not an old lady miracle of fertility. I'm just a woman of a certain age whose fertility is crashing and whose chances of conception are vanishingly small each month.
That doesn't stop me hoping. I have a calendar written out at the back of my work notebook and every so often during the day I peruse it. I know the pattern of my period days. I know what 40 weeks from the start of each period would have been. I know my ovuation days and when it would be reasonable to pee on a home pregnancy test. I never get there because my period arrives beautifully, regularly, reliably and depressingly at 12 dpo pretty much without fail.
The hope is silly because every time I have been pregnant, I've known by about 8dpo. So if I don't have any signs by then, it's not our cycle. But each time I wake up on 12dpo and there's no blood, I hope. I look at my little black book and remind myself when 40 weeks would be. I day dream in the off moments during the day. And then sometime around tea time, I go to the loo. I wipe, and there is a pink smear. And I know its all over again.
Today hurt worse than the other recent periods. Because it's cumulative. Each month it feels less and less likely that we will get lucky again. Every month it hurts that bit more. And in this month, it brings us to the start of our fifth IVF cycle. I really don't want to do IVF again, but I really do want Pob to have a sibling. At the same time as I also struggle with the fact that I'm not spending as much time with her as I'd like, and having another baby wouldn't help that. But her having a sibling is what I think is right for her in the long run. I might have to revise that opinion in the end, but for now I'm sticking to it.
Sticking to it means injections again, injections and frustrating phone calls with the clinic, and scans and hopefully retrievals and embryos, and another week of sitting there, looking at my little black book, feeling worried that the potential baby would have a crap birthday (end of July, who's ever going to remember?), at the same time as knowing it won't work, and we'll be into 2009 and I'll be 42 and honestly why on earth are we still hoping. We got so lucky once. Others get lucky more than once, but increasingly I think once was all our luck in one go. It was wonderful wonderful luck and every day it gets better, but it made me greedy for more. I thought we'd get lucky again. Increasingly it looks like I was just that bit too optimistc.