It’s time. It’s time to pass along my leftover IVF drugs. It’s time to take the basal body temperature thermometer off of my nightstand. It’s time to remove the IVF category from the Professor’s and my Google calendar. It’s time to move on.
I have always said that I would know when I was done with infertility treatments. Yesterday, while looking out over the cliffs of Port Reyes National Seashore, was it. Two years ago, before I even started this blog, this was my life. We traveled. We had amazing adventures. We laughed. We romped. We lived unlike anyone else in our social circle.
In return, we sat on Ikea couches and I colored my own hair out of a $10 box. Once small luxuries were cast aside we had the ability to live a very rich, very colorful life.
Then we started treatment and all that went out the window. Extra dollars once used for travel were handed to doctors by the fistful Exciting adventures into the depths of our Kentucky home were abandoned thanks to my perpetual hormone fueled moods. Even quiet dinners at the house were interrupted by the ever-present need for another injection or discussion on what we were doing next.
Two years of hormonal poison coursing through my brain is enough.
Yes, I am pregnant and for that I am eternally grateful. Like so many of us, though, the Professor and I have always wanted two children and had talked about going through treatment again after this baby joins us. Time, you know, heals wounds, injection battle grounds and can replenish the bank account. But after this week, after returning briefly to what we once were and what we can be again, I know that will never happen.
I am done.
“Hey babe,” I said as the cold January wind beat at my face. “I miss this.”
“Yeah, me too. It’s been a hellish two years.”
“Uh-huh. I’m done…. Like, forever done. Even if, God forbid, this Chicken does not make it home. I’m done. No more treatments.”
“I’m happy with that.”