One of the things I try hard not to regret is that I waited so long to start trying to become a mom. It doesn't do any good to regret it-- I wasn't ready for a hundred reasons. And if I'd started earlier, I wouldn't have Elle, and clearly Elle was meant to be here.
But sometimes, regret breaks through. It's doing so now because, had I done this sooner (and presumably had similar luck in terms of conception), there would be some chance of being able to have another child.
I know! The very thought is crazy. Insane. But with Elle nearly a year old, the knowledge that she is an only child with a practically nonexistent family feels like a weight on my chest. It's not news, of course, but I can still wish it was different.
Of course, it's impossible. At my next birthday I'll be 45; conceiving Elle at 43 was a miracle in itself. Even if I wanted to give it a shot, I no longer have the insurance coverage that made my IVF possible. And if by some miracle I had another child, the daycare costs would kill me. (Not to mention I have no desire to ever be pregnant again.)
If I had embryos on ice, I just might say what the hell and give it a shot-- why not try a FET, if you've got them? But I don't. I was on massive quantities of drugs and only produced five eggs, and all four that fertilized were transferred. One of them is my beautiful Elle; there were no spares. That's probably a good indication that now, getting on to two years later, the likelihood of viable eggs is pretty low.
So I have all these rational reasons why it's just not possible. Right now, though, there's a part of me that doesn't care.
I guess I'm just mourning the possibilities.