Oh hi, I'm back.
I stopped writing because for a long time I had no news to report. Then, when I did have news to report, quite good news in fact, the very best news that an infertile bird can hope to get....well, I was afraid to write about it because I didn't want to jinx it and I didn't want to tell the internet that I was pregnant until I was sure it was going to stick, because I didn't want to liveblog my miscarriage, if that's what was going to happen.
It seems my instincts were sound.
I got pregnant in March. After a picture-perfect cycle: a young, fertile and conscientious donor, healthy eggs and awesome embryos, two pink lines on the peestick and higher-than-average beta results, after we had seen the heartbeat on two ultrasounds, saw our baby develop from a 6-week tadpole into a 7-week shrimp, and had been told by our doctor that we had a 95% chance of carrying it to term and he had "a really good feeling about this one," after weeks of queasiness and dizziness and omgIreallyFEELpregnant, after telling my parents the news because we truly deep-down believed it was going to happen this time because everything was happening exactly like it was supposed to and we did everything right and goddammit we deserve it, our baby quietly and inexplicably died one night when I was 8 weeks along.
I felt it happen. People will say it's impossible and I imagined it, but I knew the minute that tiny heart stopped beating. I felt the life that had been growing inside me, stop. I startled awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding and full of dread. I felt all the energy in my body that had been directed to creating and sustaining the little butterbean suddenly surge through me. Life support had been turned off but the circuit was still live and the wire crackled and sparked. I knew it was over. Everyone tried to reassure me that it's totally normal to have these feelings and that loads of women had fears, anxiety and worries when they were pregnant and everything turned out just FINE. But 3 days later the ultrasound showed that my baby had died and it had happened about 3 days earlier. Don't tell me I don't know my fucking body.
So, anyway, here I am. Again.
You might not be surprised to hear I'm having a tough time. I think I seem OK on the outside. There's a lot going on at work so I have to keep my shit together at least during the day. But I'm a whole bundle of grief and rage and despair wrapped in a layer of tissue paper, tied with a thin piece of string. Don't look too close, don't ask too much of me, I just might fall apart.
See, here's The Thing: they have no idea WHY it happened. Once again, nothing wrong with the baby. Something horribly wrong with me, something they can't even identify, let alone conquer. I've battled Advanced Maternal Age and Premature Ovarian Failure, but now I'm being attacked by the Voldemort of infertility, That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named: Undiagnosed Recurrent Miscarriage. They can get me pregnant but can't keep me there and they've run out of things to try.
At this point a rational person might throw up their hands and say, enough. We have tried literally EVERYTHING to have a baby and we can't make it happen. Maybe it's time to admit that it's Just Not Meant To Be. Maybe it's time to move on with our lives.
But we can't.
Our young and fertile egg donor gave us so many robust eggs that we ended up with six frozen embryos. The shared-risk program means we get to keep trying until all six have been used. If we don't succeed, we will get our money back. ALL OF IT. It's a not insignificant amount. I'd give it all and then some to have a child, but if I. Just. Can't. then I will take our money back, thankyouverymuch.
And I can't very well tell myself that we tried everything if we give up before ALL our chances have been used up.
So I have to keep trying. My doctor won't transfer more than two at once, so I may have to put myself through all of this THREE more times, because let's be honest: my odds of success? Not so good. If they don't know what's wrong with me, how can they fix it? Right now I feel that the best I can hope for is that none of the frozen embryos even "take," so that I don't have to go through three more miscarriages, three more rounds of hope and despair, three more cycles of grief and healing.
I have to keep trying, even though I'll probably fail. And no amount of will or want or science or prayer will change the outcome.
Even Sisyphus would think it's pretty fucked up.
I don't know if anyone is reading or caring anymore. But I think I'm going to have to start using writing as therapy again, so maybe I'll see you around.