Because It’s Always Something
The magic number for fertility in my head was always 35. I know that in reality your eggs do not shrivel up and die the day you turn 35, but somehow it is the number that always stuck in my head. For some reason, and I know this is somewhat out-dated thinking, I regard having a baby over 35 as “high-risk” and “dangerous.” I know that people do this all the time and have perfectly healthy babies; I also know that you can be much younger and still have something go very, very wrong with your pregnancy or your baby. It is just something that has very effectively been programmed into my brain. Interestingly, I can look at other people and their plans quite objectively but I feel that, for me, 35 is some sort of fertility ledge.
I turn 35 in November.
I feel fairly confident that I “cured” my miscarriage problemg, in so much as that can ever really be done. Perhaps the two miscarriages were a fluke or perhaps Baby S was a fluke, but in treating the hypo-thyroid and using the blood-thinners to address a probable auto-immune issue, I feel fairly confident that I am doing all I can to prevent another miscarriage.
Somehow, though, I feel like waiting until I am 35+ to try again is tempting fate. My logical mind says “really, how much of a difference can a few more months make? If you start trying a year from now, how much will your eggs really suffer?” The irrational side of me feels like waiting is ensuring that I will miscarry or will have a baby with genetic abnormalities. I know this is not rational, but it increasingly plays in the back of my mind. I worry about being able to conceive again, about spacing children, about handling two kids and working, but even more than that I worry that by waiting, all I will be left with is genetically mutated eggs.
This is not something I can even really write about well, becuase it is not yet fully formed in my mind. I can usually talk some sense into myself, but the fear keeps creeping back. I just worry it is my intuition.