For as much as I thought I'd steeled myself over the last several days for the inevitable negative pregnancy test - especially in light of several days of spotting, half of which occurred while I was still on progesterone in oil shots - today it hit me like a ton of bricks. I spent most of the day fighting back tears, feeling like someone's sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
This failure feels like one notch closer on the giant universe clock toward "too late, Amy, no biological children for you." Remember, Dr. M. told me, maybe off the cuff, but still said the words, "If you're not pregnant in three to six months, then it's time to consider donor eggs." That was in January, when I learned my real Anti-Mullerian Hormone (AMH) level (0.28...really, really low).
Granted, while we've tried to get pregnant the past three months, only one of those attempts - this last one - really counts in my mind. I mean, two infertiles who really can't get pregnant on their own to save their lives (and have been told they can't) aren't likely to succeed the old fashioned way. So, yes, we tried, everything was perfectly timed, we know I ovulated, but we didn't get pregnant. Not a big surprise.
This last one, though, it counted. He said three to six months - which to me, means three to six ART attempts - and now we're down by one.
Also, since a baby conceived last month would have been due in January, and my birthday is in March, I now have very little hope of having a baby before I turn 39, unless I conceive on my own, which, yeah. (Or, I suppose, unless we conceive multiples on the first attempt with the new clinic (if they can even help us) and they're born early but healthy...I'm not going to wish that on us.)
Put these two things together, and mix in the dream I awoke from this morning where the other clinic, the one we're consulting with at the end of the month, told me it's too late, there's nothing they can do to help, and Dr. M. was right (noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!), and I feel a little neurotic and backed into a corner.
While I do look forward to getting a second opinion, I'd be lying if I said I'm not completely terrified.
If I was just a "normal" infertile still, one who hadn't already conceived my own biological children and lost them to a rare second trimester miscarriage for what feels like a stupid reason caused by my own body, then considering donor eggs wouldn't be quite as painful as it is to me. Just like with adoption (and I swear to God, the next person who suggests adoption to either Paul or me as the "obvious" next step in our journey may be killed), moving on means not only grieving the babies we have lost, who we wanted and tried for so desperately, but also grieving me ever, ever having my own biological children.
Paul and I can't even talk about it right now, the two of us. I can't because I want to scream and pull my hair out, and he can't because he wants us to have our babies, not just his babies. We've been together, committed, for nearly 7 years, and married for 5.5. We expected to have a lifetime of US, our future, being able to conceive and birth and raise our genetic offspring, together. Any other option right now is unfathomable.
On top of all this...there's plain old grief. Next week, the 11th, will mark the one year anniversary of our first of two back-to-back IUIs that got us pregnant with the twins. From then until August 5th, nearly every week will harbor an anniversary date from our pregnancy, from the date of the first home test, to the blood test, to the first ultrasound, to Aliya's first abruption, to bedrest, to my first HMO appointment, to our big NT scan in Seattle...all the way to the days before our lives fell to shambles, when things were going wrong that I just couldn't see clearly. And then the end.
Part of me had secretly hoped to conceive during this past cycle so at least Paul and I could have a little joy to distract us from what looms large in the months ahead. No such luck.
It's already started...and it hurts.