It’s good advice but what happens when it’s even too painful to write about? For those of you that have been following our journey I apologize for my absence and thank you for your patience.
There’s so much to share with you all that I’m not sure where to start! Eventually we’ll cover the time my husband told our RE that my on-screen uterus looked like Homer Simpson’s mouth, we’ll talk about the egg retrieval and the overwhelming yet exciting process that is, and we’ll talk about that time I almost peed on the doctor during our second transfer, but this time I’m going to write hard and clear about what hurts, I’m going to share the story of our first failure.
We’ve gone through three transfers and not one of them has worked; two have done the way of an early miscarriage and one didn’t take at all. Today I finally packed away the photos they give you at the beginning of every transfer. All that hope encased in a grainy black and white photo of a cellular mass that you can’t help but name, you can’t help but imagine what they might smell like or how their laughter is going to sound. You can’t help but pin your everything on that tiny 3×5 photo that you love more with every breath you take. Those photos got me through what is referred to as the Two Week Wait, it really should be called Purgatory.
For our first transfer (all of them really if we’re going to be honest) I broke the number one rule the doctors give you when you have an embryo transfer, I took pregnancy tests. When I made it to Day 6 after my transfer I broke and panic-peed during my lunch break. It wasn’t glamorous like the First Response commercials make it out to be. I was so nervous that I peed on my hand, got it all over my pants and gave myself a headache staring intently at the small testing window waiting for an answer.
It was positive! Holy. Shit.
I began to test obsessively, morning, noon, and night, it was the most amazing feeling! I had a ziplock baggie full of positive tests that I couldn’t wait to add to our Year In Review boxes that we hang on the wall every New Year’s Day, you could not have found a happier person in the world. Then it happened. I started bleeding.
“It’s more than likely irritation from the medicine” the on-call nurse said, “call us back if it gets worse otherwise we’ll see you on Monday for your blood test!”
I was still testing at this point and getting positives so everything was fine in my world. It didn’t last. Sunday afternoon during my now-daily lunch pee, the test was negative and I knew. I wish at this point I could accurately describe how it felt like my heart exploded into irreparable shards but I could never do it justice. I’ve never cried like this before, it was guttural and all encompassing, at one point I completely stopped, confused as to where these sounds could be coming from, when I realized they were from me it only made things worse. When Monday came the news wasn’t surprising, we were about to experience what is technically called Chemical Pregnancy or very early miscarriage. Most often these miscarriages and pregnancy go unnoticed due to the earliness of them. Unless you’re obsessively testing (and I mean, who would do that?) you often never even know that you were pregnant for those 10 beautiful days.
I wish I could say that it got easier with the other two failed transfers but it hasn’t. There are good days and there are bad days. There are days when the Greek-tragedy sounding sobs consume me, and there are other days when I’m ready to try again.
Thanks for hanging with me through this heavy post. I haven’t edited it and I’m posting it raw and unfiltered so if there’s any grammatical mistakes, get over it. Next time I’ll lighten it up and tell you all about 14 vials of blood and what they have in common with the Trolls soundtrack.