I just got off the phone with the anesthetist I’ll have tomorrow.  I told a stranger my age (39), medications (none), past surgeries (three), height (5’3″) and weight (fat chance, folks.)

Tomorrow, I’m getting Essure, which is a procedure in which tiny (I hope) rods are inserted in my Fallopian tubes. Within a few months, scar tissue will form, preventing eggs from getting to my hospitable uterus.  I’ll be infertile for the rest of my life.

This is the right decision. I turn 40 in a few months. Huzzy is 42.  We have three wonderful kids. This past pregnancy was dangerous and painful.  I had placenta previa. I had phlebitis. I had vulvar varices and couldn’t sit down the last three weeks of pregnancy.  The delivery literally almost killed me (my placenta practically exploded) and I had a hematoma that stretched from my belly button down through my vag and further south to my upper thigh that rendered me immobile for a few weeks. The hematoma burst through my c-section scar.  I had a nurse here at the house 2 times a day cleaning and packing the wound until it closed. That was some kind of hell.

It’s best I don’t get pregnant again.

Damn it all if I’m not feeling awful about it. Scared. Old. Wanting more babies.

I’m sad with each milestone. I love the newborn stage (especially with this easy newborn!) and enjoy my kids. Every skill mastered triggers nostalgia and a mild smack upside the back of my head of my own mortality.  It’s made worse knowing that I’ll never get this again…I won’t even have the remote possibility.

I’ve been blessed with the most wonderful baby this time around. She is a great sleeper. Her smile seems to split her face into rays of sunshine. Her cooing would melt the coldest heart.

And that’s it. I can’t slow it down. I can’t stop it.

I just want her to be this age, this time, this way for a little longer….