There’s a saying in my native New Hampshire: “You can’t get there from here.”
That’s how I feel tonight. How do I get back to being the happy carefree girl I once was?
When I started writing this blog I was determined to be upbeat and positive about the trials and tribulations of my IVF life. It was easy to be positive back then; after all, I had nothing to loose in all this. I had been ready to move on to adoption immediately after Mr. T’s diagnosis, but Mr. T wanted to give IVF a try. Being the good sport that I am, I went along with it.
Our motto was “no regrets.” We’d try this IVF thing, and if it didn’t work, we’d take the money back from our IVF Refund Program and adopt. We’d create our family one way or another.
So I was ready for IVF 1.0 to fail. I even told our doctor at transfer not to worry if it didn’t work out; that IVF hadn’t been so bad and I knew we’d be parents one way or another. What I was not prepared for was the pure joy of our first pregnancy test, believing for the first time that we might have babies with Mr. T’s smile and my curls. The excitement of telling a few friends and family, thinking of names and how our life would change. We were almost to the end of those dreaded Progesterone in Oil shots when we discovered at our second ultrasound that our baby’s heart had stopped.
It was devastating, but I bounced back quickly. We tried again a few months later with two more of our perfect frozen embryo blasts, and again, joy was followed by heartbreak at our first ultrasound.
I was convinced that these losses must have been because of the marathon I ran a few weeks before starting IVF 1.0. This time, the third time, would be different. This would be a fresh start.
I’ve tried to be brave and hopeful. I really believed it would be different this time. But walking home from work yesterday, I finally admitted that all my pregnancy symptoms were gone. And having been through this before, I know the feeling too well. I don’t have any bleeding or cramping (the PIO always does its job well to prevent that), but the bloating, the tender breasts, the slightly seasick feeling and hourly pee trips, and that mysterious and beautiful feeling that I wasn’t alone in my own body- all gone.
I barely made it in the door before collapsing into a heap of tears. Poor Mr. T thought I was in physical pain, his face full of worry and fear for me. He held me and rocked me and did his best to talk me out of my conviction that we lost yet another baby.
“I’m worried about you, Jess.”
“I’m worried about me too.”
Mr. T, dear husband that he is, still holds out hope for us. As we went to bed, tears still streaming down my face, he stroked my tummy, telling our baby to hang in there. I let him have his hope. I wish I could hold out my own hope for another week, to allow myself to enjoy this last week of being pregnant, the last chance I may ever have to be pregnant.
It sounds sad, but I just feel numb and calm now. Dreading May 11th when the doctors confirm what I already know.
I just want to go back to being that carefree happy girl who had nothing to loose. How do I get back there from here?
Sorry I don’t have a happy ending here for you tonight. Thanks to you all for your support.