Epilogue

So it’s been two and a half years since all the fun. I know, because Luke now looks like this:

Luke at 2

Yeah, I don’t know where his blonde hair and blue eyes comes from either, considering both the Partner and I are fairly dark. The scientists must have stirred his mixture up that way in the lab. But in about fifteen or so years he’s going be a hit with the attractive gender of his choice, what with all that blonde-hair-blue-eye action going on.

Anyway, about six months back, when Lukey was about to turn 2, I gave away all our baby gear. Like, everything. The clothes, the equipment, toys, high chair, bassinet, baby carrier. It all went to a fantastic local charity, St Kilda Mums, who source the basics for struggling families, those below the poverty line, those who are homeless or unemployed or without support or just need a bit of a hand. Those unable to to buy the cots or coats or formula or toys or nappies or other essentials for their babies and kids. 

So before anything else, please go check out St Kilda Mums, because they are the most awesome organisation I’ve ever come across: http://www.stkildamums.org

Anyway, I dropped everything off at their collection centre because The Partner and I had decided no more IVF. We couldn’t afford it, if nothing else – seriously, you know how expensive that kind of fun is? And we were both getting older. We were lucky to have our one, our Luke, and we could devote everything to him and that was fine.

Two weeks exactly after I gave everything away, I started feeling sick. A nausea which just didn’t go away. And tired. Train-wreck exhausted kind of tired. With stretching pains around the groin. And…

… you can see where this is going, right?

Look, don’t ask me how it happened. Well, okay, we’re all adults here and know *how* it happened, but believe me when I say with a 2 year old tearing around the house it’s not like The Partner and I were going at it like rabbits. Finding five minutes to ourselves every four or five months was about it, know what I mean?

Plus, I’m 40 now. What with all those fertility issues for all those years, and my “advanced maternal age”, as the medical types like to term it, I figured I was more likely to be hitting menopause than getting knocked up.

But there it was. Nausea, exhaustion, the rest. I did the whole pee on a stick thing – such a dignified process, even for one who’s gone through IVF – and before I’d even had a chance to glance at the clock to start counting down the 5 minutes until a result could be ascertained, there were two big fat dark lines showing up on the thing.

I was pregnant.

I am pregnant. About 30 weeks now with a huge pregnant belly preceding me wherever I go. A little girl, our Charlotte Rose, is due to turn up in about another 10 weeks and I’m quietly freaking out about how to manage two kidlings and still completely shocked that I will have to, but yes, more than anything at all, mind-blowingly happy.

The lesson in all this? That there isn’t one. Fertility is a card game, a dice roll, a crap shoot. Some people can’t stop having babies, others never will. Nothing is guaranteed. I had to tell my oldest friend I was ‘Surprise-Pregnant!’ the same week she miscarried for the second time. All I know is the fertility gods and goddesses are fickle buggers who won’t be second-guessed.

Good luck to anyone thinking about IVF, going through IVF, or facing decisions about whether or not to continue IVF. It’s a hell of a ride.

Love The Patient.

And Luke. And Charlotte. And The Partner.

 

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Published in: on August 7, 2014 at 10:26 pm  Comments (1)  

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