*First of all, I so appreciate all of the comments and support. It means the world to me. Secondly, I'll probably be writing a LOT here, because I write to process. That doesn't mean you have to keep reading and/or commenting. I know my story gets tired and old. Believe me, I know.
I'm in the anger stage. Full on, bonafide PISSED.
One thing is painfully clear, there are now a whole list of places I won't be going. And yes, I'm staying on the meds and rechecking, but let's be real. My Saturday day HPT was positive. One of my Sunday HPTs was positive--the same brand as Saturday's. That was the Target knock off FRER, which has been known to detect Hcg as low as 12.5, but now I'm thinking 9 as well. So what was it picking up on Saturday? Likely a slightly higher Hcg, which was then caught on its way down on Sunday. Plus, the only symptom I was having at all--vague light-headedness--has disappeared.
So here's a quick list: (I'm too tired to write it Seussian style)
An OB/GYN's for an actual OB appointment. Just gyn for me.
A maternity clothes store.
An ultrasound visit.
A baby store to register for newborn things.
A tour of a labor and delivery unit with nervous anticipation.
A parking space in one of those fucking "expectant mom's" spots. Nope, not me.
The list could go on and on and on...
Mr. LC is, predictably, my rock. He has not fallen apart yet, maybe he won't. All I know is that somehow yesterday our laundry was done and put away, the kitchen was cleaned, I was fed, my lab coat was ironed, and I had a lunch made this morning. And all I remember doing was bawling my brains out yesterday, leaning into him so tightly I could scarcely breathe. And now the irrational fears that something will happen to him are starting...if I lose him, I lose myself.
I looked at him yesterday and said "As long as it's just you and me here in the house, I can survive."
But the world--out there, hell, even here--is a scary place. There are fertiles and former-infertiles-with success everywhere. The percentage of people like us--who have failed and failed and failed and failed and failed--is low. We are not normal, and we are very much alone in most ways. With every failure at a biological child, our sense of separateness from the majority of the world grows. We do not feel like waves in the ocean with our fellow humans, we feel like freaks who cannot attain the most natural of goals.
I am sick of it. I want to run away, but can anyone tell me where to go? I want to quit my job, sell our house, and move far away where no one knows us. Where we aren't pitied. Where people don't secretly thank God they aren't us. Because I know it's true. I know my friends look at their beautiful children and thank their lucky stars they aren't us. Who could blame them?
I am pissed. I did everything right. I was healthy. My body has utterly betrayed me yet again. And today I sit, seeing patient after patient, my hollow urgings to get them to take better care of themselves, and they aren't even willing to lift a finger. I'm on autopilot today.
This morning I looked at my dogs. They're perplexed right now. Why so many tears? Why so much sadness in our house? They don't understand. What happened to the happy-happy-joy-joy that was all day Saturday?
They want it back. I do too. I want to reverse time and stare at that positive HPT--to feel content and joyous like that--for the rest of my life. I can't even bear to throw them away, my little reminders of something that will never be mine.
Two months of induced menopause.
Hundreds of shots.
More vaginal ultrasounds than anyone should endure.
Two endometrial biopsies.
Three months of no sugar and gag-inducing protein shakes.
Six months of acupuncture.
Two trips out of state.
Five in vitro cycles.
The final result: 9.
Universe: You win.
2 years ago