Today I am not. Tomorrow I am. Advanced Maternal Age. 35.
It’s a stupid designation. I’m only one day less fertile than I was the day before. And apparently I wasn’t particularly fertile on any of those days before either. The unexplained in “unexplained recurrent pregnancy loss” would bother me if I bothered to think about it. I don’t — usually. Except tonight, the night before I become of advanced maternal age.
I wonder what was wrong with each pregnancy. I wonder if I’d started at 29 instead of 31 whether it would have made a difference. I wonder if I gave up too easily. I wonder if next time would have been the time that worked. I wonder if next time would have been more of the same — or worse. I wonder if I’d been to an RE after the second loss whether the third would have worked. I wonder why I think about any of this when the perfect daughter arrived last February without any help from my biology.
It’s one thing to figure out that the sands of your fertility hourglass were slipping by faster than you previously realized. It’s another thing entirely to know they’re still slipping by and just let them go anyway. To know there’s still time in this game to make a mad dash to victory but to shrug and say I’m happy with the score I have now. That’s the decision we made. I love my husband and daughter. I love that we plan to add to our family through adoption again in the future.
When life gives me a minute of pause, I hear the sands running and I stop to wonder… and then I go about my business. I’m not in the mood for this game anymore.