I ovulated on Day 13 of my cycle. That never happens. Maybe it was a bad omen. Maybe my body was done with all the poking, prodding, and pain. But I got an early positive pregnancy test. And another one a few days later.
Bizarrely, my mind flicked to mundane things like “how will we fit three car seats in the car” and “this will delay me getting my body back again by years”, rather than jubilation. I was hopeful though, that this one would stick. My husband wasn’t. When I showed him the positive test with a smile on my face he looked at me with no expression, like I was an idiot. I burst out crying, and he explained it was impossible for him to believe it would work given our history. I was sad and angry that this is what a positive pregnancy test looked like in our house.
I took another pregnancy test, and it had barely shifted in colour. I had drunk a lot of water, but something didn’t feel quite right. My minor symptoms all disappeared. My breasts were no longer sore, my hunger gone. And so when I went for my blood test on Day 10 after the transfer, I was hopeful but not surprised when the nurse told me that the HcG was only 9, and the pregnancy would not succeed.
I was at work when I got the call. It was bloody hard holding it together that afternoon. My mind was blank. This was it, the last chance, gone. I walked out early. I had to go and pick up my son from school and someone talked about mundane things like lawns. I barely responded. My friend asked if I was OK, I couldn’t talk but I messaged her later.
I was truly heartbroken. The next week we went on holiday, which was a good escape, but the reality loomed over me and crushed me. I saw my pregnant sister in law, who had the same due date as our February failed transfer. Why did everyone else get pregnant so easily or at least eventually. Why the hell did we have nine failed pregnancies. I didn’t want to talk, I couldn’t. My mind was blank. I wanted to be by myself and away. My husband called me anti-social and compared me to my mother, which is basically the biggest insult he could have made. I don’t think he fully grasped that it was a side effect of me being broken inside.
And so here we are. It hurts every day. I pack away my daughter’s baby clothes and cry knowing that these clothes were meant for our third baby. Knowing I will never cuddle my own newborn again. I’m annoyed that after being in such a happy place after my daughter was born that I am back here, again, in a place where I feel broken, sad, deflated and down. I overanalyse everything, which is so frustrating and unhelpful. Why did we fail? Would a simple change have changed everything?
Now I have small victories. Doing things for myself. Planning a future about me, rather than about what I need to do to try and get pregnant. Small victories are just that at this stage, small, but I’m trusting that they will build over time until one day I don’t think about being pregnant, or what might have been.
3littlebirds 