I’ve had my heart broken before. At least, I thought I had. Boys, men, tears, drama … but this is different. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out.
Almost a fortnight ago I sat on my couch and saw two perfect pink lines appear. My hand shook, my stomach flipped … after two and a half years, three rounds of IVF, surgery, the hardest ‘journey’ we’d ever been on … two lines! TWO LINES!
Last weekend, another test, a fainter line. Faith held out and as we walked through the late Autumn leaves we allowed ourselves the precious luxury of imagining ‘what if’. I tried so hard to steel myself for bad news. But after so long, the happiness came gushing in.
Monday was the blood test. My normal, wonderful, nurse was away, so I had to call another nurse at 10am – in tears – to tell them I’d started spotting. What cruel timing is it to allow us to get all the way to beta day and then begin spotting? Her phone call later that day kept us in horrible limbo. My beta was 46 – they wanted to see a 50, at least. My spotting stopped. My brain didn’t.
They booked me in for another beta on Thursday morning, told me to keep up the progesterone and other drugs, and ‘hope for the best’ … they had no idea.
I stayed at home the next day. Holed up under a rug on the couch. Whirring through work emails to keep my mind off things, swinging from one extreme emotion to the other. And then, in the afternoon, I started bleeding. Heavily. Painfully. I called my nurse, sobbing. She told me to take an extra dose of progesterone but I could tell by the tone in her voice that it was over.
She moved my beta to the following morning and I cried when the nurse took my bloods. ‘Sorry’, I said, ‘It’s not the needle …’ She patted my arm. ‘No dear, it never is in here.’
The numbers had – of course – dropped.
And we are heartbroken.
I know it’s just a few cells, but I can’t tell you how blindsided by grief I am. Despite everything, we allowed ourselves to dream the next nine months (and more) away. I just keep thinking, ‘What if? What if this never happens for us?’ … This was our last frozen embryo. It feels like our last ounce of optimism and passion and drive and focus has gone. All weekend I’ve bled and cramped like never before, and I feel like I can’t go on.
I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to see anyone. I just feel so sad, and so empty. I didn’t want to write this post. I am so tired of crying – but I feel I need to get it down. Somehow, if I get it down here, maybe the pain will start to go away.
The only positive out of this cruel mess is my husband and I are closer than ever before. He is as devastated as I, but has still managed to find the strength to look after me. He’s the only person I want to see, or talk to.
I know, I KNOW there are people out there who are worse off and further down the line and all of those other things. But, if anyone mentions another silver lining, or dark before dawn, or any other fucking trite phrase to try and cheer me up I will kill them. Allow us to be sad, that’s the least they can do.
the (once) bunless oven 
Oh honey it is like we are reading the same song book. I made it to the doubling stage only for it to all come crashing down exactly a week ago. I am so sorry for your loss. It is a loss. You had a baby in there. One that was ready to be loved and cherished. I don’t know why it gets taken away from us. It is ok to be sad. That is all I feel at the moment inifinate sadness. Be strong. Be good to yourself and know that you are not alone.
I am so sorry for you loss.
I’m so sorry!! No trite phrases will help. Try to give yourself time to heal, but in the mean time also forgive you’reself for being a bit broken. I used to beat myself up about feeling my grief, but you have to. I’m sorry you have to go through this. ((HUGS))
I am so, so, so sorry.
I don’t feel as if it was “just a few cells”. It was your baby. From the moment it was created, you have loved it and had the biggest hopes and dreams and aspirations for that little bundle of cells. And that little bundle of cells represented all of your hopes and dreams and happiness.
When you saw those 2 beautiful lines, you felt as if your moment had finally FINALLY FINALLY arrived and that in 9 short months, you would be holding that precious baby in your arms.
I know all of this because I have been there. I know what it is like to feel that kind of a broken heart. I won’t sit here and try to blow smoke up your butt. It sucks. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to get mad a the universe. You are allowed to wallow in self pity. I will tell you that with time, it gets better. And eventually, you will decide what your next step will be and when that next step feels right.
We are here if you need us until then. Hang in there and big hugs!
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