Man, hormones are a bitch. On my ride home from a lovely beach vacation characterized by food, zumba classes to work off the food, and endless days on the sand, I felt nauseous. I wanted to throw up. I was 6DPO. Fuck. Who the hell takes a pregnancy test at 6dpo? Anything that implants that early could be ectopic. Who tests I ask? THIS idiot (who bought a 50 pack of wondfos ages ago).
So I got home and tested. And then tested again at 7, 8, 9, and 10dpo. Today, at 11dpo I can assure you, I am not pregnant. I am however, angry. Angry at myself for falling back into this trap. August was my fourth consecutive cycle of sort of trying/not trying hard to get pregnant after my last miscarriage. Why am I so angry? I am 41. I went through an 8 month stretch of BFNs when I was 39. Who knows. Maybe this is it. Maybe I am on the fast train to infertility. Maybe this is my wake-up call?
For all of these years I have been hesitant to put a date or time stamp to ends this madness, but maybe I need one.
OK universe, here goes: I turn 42 in March. I think it ends then. Yeah, March sounds good.
Yes, there are plenty of 42 (not to mention 43 and beyond) year olds who end up knocked up with healthy babies. Hell, I know a few of them right now, one is even 30 weeks along.
But March of 2016 will also mark the FOUR year anniversary of this madness. My first pregnancy that ended in loss began in April of 2012. I started ttc the month I turned 38, in March of that year.
Four years sounds like a nice clean number. It's been a long run. Maybe in March I will wake up and say, "No! I need more time!" Maybe I won't. But right now, setting a firm end date feels healthy.