My trip to London has been cleaved into Before the News and After the News.
Blood test results are back. Although I don’t have Fragile X, I have some fucked up chromosome that looks like IVF with my own eggs is not an option. There is a chance that my genetic child would be severely mentally disabled and / or physically deformed. I don’t know how great a chance, but the notes accompanying the test results say that it is highly recommended that we see a genetic counsellor, screen any subsequent pregnancies, and inform first degree relatives. It is extremely rare and so there is almost no information online. DH has faxed the results over to Dr. D who will call him later today.
There is more to say. So much more–about the trip, about my grandmother, about why I quit twitter–but I can’t right now. Not yet. I am devastated. DH is devastated. We don’t have all the information, but we’ve parsed enough medical journals to understand that we may have reached a point where to continue with IVF with my own eggs would be financially very foolish and poses great moral dilemmas.
I never thought I would say this: but I am so envious of women who have simply, unfortunately, had a miscarriage. Life was so much simpler then.