I got my period today. In a moment our chances for conceiving this month evaporated. I felt myself slump and fade into a moment of sadness.
That moment was nothing thought compared to the meltdown I had yesterday when I took a pregnancy test and, even with the strongest squint, there was no hint of that big fat positive. I cried so much. I felt myself being dragged back to the lows that followed our termination. So much pain, and anger, and sadness, and helplessness. It sucked. I thought we were doing so well and then, bam.
I could feel myself having an angry imaginary conversation with a friend. Yelling at them that they had no idea what it was like to nearly lose your job because your mind is elsewhere for months on end, to feel physical pain in your heart every time you saw a woman walk past with a perfectly round baby bump, to sit alone with your thoughts for hours trying to guess whether this month might be the month that the nightmare comes to an end. I felt so angry. So trapped in an endless shitty nightmare.
I did my best to imagine all the people in the world who are in a shittier place than us. To be grateful to live in a beautiful country, in a nice house, with a wonderful and supportive husband, and to have a gorgeous son. I feel guilty sometimes how self-absorbing this journey to pregnancy is. I know it frustrates my husband. I can understand why.
Today, though, I am resigned to the fact that 2016 holds no hope for us. I’ve changed my focus to that arbitrary line in the sand that is 1 January 2017. A new year.
A year ago I thought the same thing about 2015. My husband and I sat down beside the river at my in-laws holiday house and wept quietly on New Year’s Eve, knowing that the end of the year meant the closure of a chapter of our lives, but also meant that our little ones were gone and drifting further away from us.
Come on powers that be, haven’t we been through enough? Please give us a leg up and let 2017 be the year that we welcome our second perfect baby. I’m not ready to give up!