We spend every day of our lives making choices, big and small. What to study in school, how to spend your paycheck, when to get out of bed (snuggle the pets for another few minutes or shower and get ready for work?), what city to live in, what to wear to the holiday party. We become so accustomed to choice that when it is taken away from us, when we don't get to choose, it shocks us to the core.

I didn't always know I wanted to be a mother. When parenthood was a choice, I almost didn't choose it. And then something changed, gradually, and one day I was ready to choose motherhood. For many, 7 in 8 couples, that's it - choosing to grow your family. We thought we were making a simple choice. 

We didn't want to admit that it might not be so simple for us. It took two years, two miscarriages, and countless tears of frustration to start infertility testing. And we learned that we do not, in fact, have much of a choice in this at all. When my nurse called to talk about my test results, she explained that I was beyond the expertise of the staff at the birth center, where I also went for check-ups and OB appointments, and referred me to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE) for further testing.

We waited three months for a consultation with the RE, and she confirmed what I had learned via Dr. Google months earlier - I had diminished ovarian reserve. My ovaries were aging far faster than I was, and my test results indicated the egg reserve more similar to a woman in her mid-40's than one in her late 20's. Along with a diminished quantity of eggs, I likely had a diminished quality, possibly explaining my two lost pregnancies. Like a bowl of blueberries, where the biggest, plumpest, juiciest, bluest, most beautiful ones have already been plucked out and eaten, where all that remains are a handful of small, wrinkled, dry berries that you are tempted to toss into the compost they appear so unappetizing. Every month, my body scrapes the bottom of that bowl, working harder and harder to release one of those unappetizing, shriveled berries. 

In the absence of choice, I was angry. Why us? Why me? Why was my husband stuck with an infertile woman, when he so deserved to be the wonderful father I know he would be? I mourned my lost babies, knowing that I may never see a second line again, may never carry a pregnancy to term, may never wonder whether the child I carry will have my red curly hair. 

Everything reminded me of the choices I don't get to make. Seeing a pregnant woman on the street, learning of a friend's pregnancy after they had been trying for just a few months, hearing someone complain about sleepless nights, feeding troubles or the lack of alone time with their significant other. I was bitter, jealous, sad. They chose motherhood, and received a child. I chose motherhood and received a diagnosis, two miscarriages, depression, a 5-10% chance of ever having a biological child, and a recommendation for donor egg IVF. 

It seems that most things in life are solved by working hard, making choices, and inching closer to your goal. Not so for infertility. The choice I made - to have a biological child - is not one that is realistic for me. Perhaps some day we will make a different choice, but today I am still grieving the loss of this one.