Yesterday I received a letter that said we have finally been approved by our insurance company for fertility treatments. Although I am sneezing on 38 years and have been trying to get pregnant for a year and a half, I have not been able to qualify for coverage. I have had two miscarriages in the past year. According to my insurance company, this isn't a fertility problem, but more of a sustaining problem. We were told that in order to be eligible for treatments, we had to try for one year with no pregnancies. This news was devastating. Although we were continuing to try, we were also paralyzed by fear of another miscarriage. With every month that passed, I would exhale that I wasn't pregnant. I was so terrified to miscarry and set the year date back even further. Plus, I knew one more miscarriage would send me over the edge. My doctor told me fertility drops significantly after 38. Did I already mention that my 38th birthday is this September? I didn't want to risk pushing the treatment date any further into "the barren land of those over 38." I would cry that I wasn't pregnant. I was working so hard, why wasn't my body cooperating?
I hate feeling old and broken, which is how I feel every month I'm not pregnant.
We are now officially knocking on the door of one year from the last miscarriage. Starting next month, we will be able to start fertility treatments. When we sought fertility treatments before getting pregnant with my son, we ended up pregnant the month before we were cleared for treatment. We were hoping for the same luck this time. I shared my hopes with my doctor, who said, "Lightening doesn't often strike twice, and now you are much older." In my grand maturity about being called old, I thought about sticking my tongue out at her and calling her something like 'stupidhead'. Instead, I quietly thanked her for her insight, left the office as quickly as possible, and sat in my car and cried.
I continue to struggle with the idea of fertility treatments. I was hoping I would never be this close to the decision. I think fertility treatments are wonderful for those who have never had children. For me, with three beautiful children already, I feel like I am tempting God. Maybe He is trying to tell me that more babies aren't in my future. There is an old story of a man caught in a flood. The man goes to the top of his roof to wait for God to save him. Men in boats and helicopters come by and offers to help and the man says, "No thanks, I am waiting for God." When he gets to heaven, he asks God, "Why didn't you save me?" God replies, "I sent you boats and helicopters!" So are the infertility treatments my boats and helicopters, or my petulant defiance of a greater will? I suppose only God has the true answer to that question. We decided to continue to try and see what happens. Whether we were meant to have a baby with or without treatments was something we were going to just let unfold naturally. After all, who are we to try to figure out the bigger plan?
Upon opening the letter yesterday, I thought, "Okay, one more month to give it a go. Let's hope I get pregnant this month...or maybe I hope I don't because if it doesn't stick, it's a full extra year and we are so close." This see-saw of thoughts happens in the heads of women struggling with fertility universally. I am no different. This same see-saw has tortured my thoughts for a full year. Yesterday felt different because I had no emotion, no heart tug, no heaviness, no hopefulness. I had the thought, and then I let it go. It was not an emptiness or a resignation, but comfort in letting go to the bigger plan. This same topic over the course of the past year has sent me spiriling into sadness. Yesterday I didn't have to talk about it and pick it apart like a vulture stripping every last bit of meat from the bone. I didn't have to cry about it. This felt new and empowering. I feel strong and secure in my ability to let go and let life lead me where it will. I am much less sketchy and twitchy, sad and crumpled.
This past year has been difficult. My reaction to the letter signified my movement into something new. We are still hoping for our family of four. We are still unsure if it will ever happen. It still makes me sad more often that I would like, but I no longer feed on the sadness for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This is progress.
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