When I last left it with my nurse, I was, am to come in any time this week and get a blood draw for an HCG.
I also was supposed to call them with any questions or if I needed a pain prescription.
I haven’t gone in, I haven’t called.
It’s so final. And I feel foolish for talking just weeks ago with the phlebotomist about pregnancy and happiness and everything else related to glowing, growing baby bumps.
Honestly, I feel stupid for having hope this would work. I know its not right to feel stupid for hoping but I do. I mean, shouldn’t I have seen this coming? What made me think I had successfully made it over the barrenness?
And the anger, yesterday I wanted to bitch slap a friend from Texas.
She was only trying to help, but asking me if we were done trying. Seriously?
It’s my biggest pet peeve with this IVF thing. People think after two times and how many gazillion dollars later, we draw the line at done. Did you stop trying for a baby after two months of sexing? And I continue to hang on to the fact both times we’ve tried, we’ve gotten pregnant. That has to count for something, right? Right?
She also mentioned that I will get pregnant when my body, mind and spirit are ready.
I was livid. Hot tears stinging my cheeks.
I know people have a hard time talking to me right now. I know. I am an utter bitch. And there is really nothing anyone can say that will make my pain go away or me feel better. But I was so offended at the idea that I wasn’t ready and, you know, those 17-year-olds who get knocked up at prom are so ready in mind, body and spirit.
Here was yet another reason I failed as a woman. I wasn’t ready. I fucked up. Trust me, I already feel like I am the failure and that I killed what was trying to grow inside me, I don’t need another perspective saying that yeah, you did fuck up.
My hubby tried to talk to me down, saying that she could have meant it in the best of ways and that it got lost in the translation through e-mail.
Maybe. Whatever. And yes, it’s probably true. She isn’t that kind of person to hurt me. But just don’t gleefully tell me it will all work out and I’ll be pregnant when I’m ready, when you got pregnant with your first because you didn’t realize that antibiotics and birth control don’t go together. And you are due in a month with your second.
So, I’ve got the angry bitchy thing down.
I just hope I am well on my way in those other stages of grief thing…
Shock and disbelief? Honey, that is so in the stirrups last Tuesday.
Denial? There was never any denial, just the crushing suckiness of learning there was nothing in that little sac.
Bargaining? I didn’t offer any Gods, Goddesses or devils any deals, I just asked them why I deserved this. And if there is a lesson to be learned, it sure seems like a crappy one (and don’t tell me it’s appreciating my children all the more when I do have them).
Guilt? Oh, I’ve got that coming out my ass. What did I do wrong? It must be my eggs, my uterus, my body.
Anger? That’s obvious. But I really want to not be angry at the world. Although, quoting TuPac seems so much more appropriate and unhealthy. Depression? Yeah, I think that goes with the territory.
Acceptance and hope? I don’t know when I will get there. I’ve accepted this loss, or so I try to tell myself, but the hope? Well, that is a little harder. I obviously wouldn’t be continuing if I didn’t have any hope. But it’s scary. This last time really felt real. And I was excited and then to have it all torn away.
And the next time? Will I worry more? When I do get pregnant, will I be as overjoyed?
I’m trying to hope. And keep faith.
It’s just hard.
No one said it’d be easy, but no one said I’d have to struggle with two losses in six months either.