Passover. Easter. Spring. We're in the season of new beginnings. I have returned from a cross-country trip with niblet and while I'm not quite rested (actually I'm a a whole-lot jet-lagged), I'm thankful that this third miscarriage came and went pretty uneventfully. Some cramping, some bleeding and then it was done. My HCG is being tracked to zero and the odds are slim that there are any remains I need to worry about.
Speaking of which, last night I had a total meltdown. You see, I had passed what I believe to be the gestational sac right before I left last week, and it sat on my dresser (hidden from view) decomposing in a sterile container marked BIOHAZARD. Like something out of a horror or sci-fi movie. And late last night, I made a decision that I hope I won't later regret: I said a prayer and flushed it down the toilet. Because you see, the thought of taking it in to the hospital for testing, which could in turn send me in for more testing, was just too much to bear. I am sure the embryo (if there was even one in there) was doomed with run of the mill chromosomal issues, my last two losses were. And well, lets just say I'm not in a place where "answers" are very helpful. I no longer need answers. I need some luck.
Upon learning of my third loss, my LA-based cousin - bless her heart - said, "Oh my god, can the doctors figure out what is going wrong?" Bless her heart, because you see, in LA, women have babies in their late-thirties and forties easy-peasy (and as it happens, ART is hardly unusual in our extended family). It just never occurred to her that my older eggs would be to blame.
For the first time in two years I am operating without a real plan. Husband and I just don't want to throw the dice at IVF without PGD, and we can't afford the PGD. The thought of a return to doctor Cuddles for another IUI gives me a headache. I want to wait until I get a normal cycle to start TTC again, and then I change my mind a say fuck it, why bother even timing anything any more. I need to stop and breathe.