H is actually wondering whether being made redundant isn’t really one of those ‘blessings in disguise’, in that it’ll bounce him into making some fairly major career/life-style/ambition changes. And bounce me too. Especially given that I am Not Entirely Enamoured with my current job and concomittant life.
You see, the plan was, when I hit 40, to Stop. By 40 we’ll either a) have a kid, or b) have reached the absolute end of biological kid road.
[Yes, I know many women can and do get pregnant and give birth safely in their 40s. But I a) will have already given ten years to Project Genesis by then, and seriously, enough already, there’s more to me than refreshing my gene-pool, and b) probably won’t hit menopause until I’m in my 50s, like my dear mama, and I can’t won’t shan’t spend my 40s in increasing total fucking agony and incapacity. Like I said, there’s more to me than reproduction, and it’d be nice to focus on that instead. And c) I’m a ‘habitual’ miscarrier now. With even staler eggs, in perimenopause? I’d be an obsessive compulsive miscarrier. No. Just, NO.]
Where was I? Oh, yes. The reason H and I are doing these our current jobs, living this life, saving money, yada yada, is because we were planning on having kids in our 30s, and wanted the security of incomes, and paid parental leave, and ability to choose (for me) whether to parent full-time or work part-time (which I could do at current place of employment) when said kids had the grace to show up. When we hit 40, either we’d have the kid(s), in which case all bets are off, because crap knows how parenting and work and finances would work out (how can we know? We’ve never tried it). Or we’d have no kids, and I would be putting a stop to any chance of having any via my reproductive tract (Mirena. Hysterectomy. That sort of thing (I can’t fucking live like this for another 15 years. I can’t. I bloody won’t)). And in that case, we both were planning to re-evaluate our lives anyway, and turn our attentions to our other loves, passions, and ambitions, which may or may, crucially, not, include working seven or eight or nine hours a day, every day, with huge commutes, on and on, for ever and ever, in jobs that aren’t especially creative or challenging (in my case) or are endlessly bogged down in bureaucratic faff and pointy-haired bossishness despite the interesting nature of the actual work itself once you’re allowed out of the endless cycle of stupid pointless meetings to do any (in H’s case).
So, rethinking may well have merely popped up four years early.
Like I said, we both have quite a lot of money saved, and if H is pushed overboard, it’ll be with a little life-raft and a cask of water.
*Chews nails off*
So H and I are making lists (lists are good. All the illusion of control and organisation, with none of the fuss of actual exertion. Bonus, you might actually do something that’s on the list, and then you get to feel smug and really organised).
This all makes IVF even more of a moot point. I know I have come across as quite pissily anti-IVF sometimes (for me. I’m not pissily anti-IVF for you. I know that IVF is a brilliant, clever, and wonderful thing, and for a lot of us infertiles, a hope, a chance, the best thing to do, and a Godsend, all in one ball). The idea of spending all that money (I no longer qualify for NHS assistance) for the exact same chance of getting pregnant and a statistically identical chance of miscarrying again? According to an internationally renowned expert as well as according to my NHS gynaecologist? (No, we don’t have REs in Britain. Well, we do, but we don’t CALL them REs, so please, no more kindly-meant emails about getting myself referred to an RE. Thank you).
But I’ve always been aware that I might stop getting pregnant on my own. I might stop ovulating again. One of my doctors may well sigh, and say that actually, diagnostic IVF might be a good idea after all (I’d freak at this point. I’m thirty-fucking-six. NOW it’s a good idea again? After having been a bad idea for FOUR FUCKING YEARS? But I digress). In which case, we had savings, we could do said bloody buggering arseing what-the-fuck what-the-hell IVF.
However, if H is made redundant and we Change Our Ways, we’ll need the savings to live on, so IVF utterly is off the table forever.
I thought this would make me hysterically anxious (hysterically! Get it? Yes? Oh, never mind). Oddly, it makes me feel relieved. Fewer choices. Less pressure. We’re doing our best and that is, after all, enough.
And when we’re 40, and have finally evicted the Infertility Elephant from our lives, we might, then, possibly, let in the Adoption Elephant. When we’re 40. When we know if rewiring our lives from scratch has worked or not. When we know we can consider it wholeheartedly.