I am burying it, as deep as it can go.
I am shying away from conversations with people who know, because I don’t want them to ask how I am doing. I don’t want to be reminded of what has happened.
It’s when I’m reminded that I start to cry again.
The only place I’ll allow myself to engage with what happened is here.
Here I feel safe.
Here I can work through my emotions without interruption, in my own time, when I am ready.
I know I should probably be trying to process what has happened. I know it is not healthy to bottle things up inside.
My jaw is already sore because I’ve started unconsciously clenching it again.
I am so quick to anger these days.
I have so little patience for E., my most beloved son, when he gets silly or defiant and pushes my buttons.
I should be letting myself grieve, letting myself cry, letting myself do what I need to accept it, and, in time, heal.
I’m not ready.
The problem is it’s not just about this baby.
If it were just about this baby, this loss, I could stand to think about it, to confront it rather than hide it down deep, as far as it can go.
I’m not ready to engage with what I’m afraid this loss means.
A friend who had a miscarriage before she had her second son sent me an email where she told me that she knew how awful it was to have to replan a year when you hadn’t wanted to change the plan at all.
I feel like I’m not just having to replan the next year, but replan my whole life.
I’m so afraid that this loss marks the end of any chance we had at becoming a family of four.
I know, I know- we have one frozen embryo- a blast- waiting for us at the clinic.
I don’t know what grade the embryo is, and it probably seems premature to discount it.
FETs don’t work for me though.
Three out of four blasts implanted (the two Day 3 embryos we transferred with that very first IUI/IVF conversion cycle in May 2009 I’m discounting because my thyroid was too high. They never had a chance.), although, of course, only one of them ever turned into a baby.
Zero for six.
And two of them, in two separate transfers, were exactly like this frozen embryo: a blastocyst that hadn’t quite made it to blast status by the time of the transfer, and was frozen on Day 6.
Late bloomers that did nothing in my womb.
I can’t see how this one is going to be any different.
And so, while it’s true that this loss does not, in itself, mark the END of our attempts to expand our family, I am so very afraid it marks the end of our hopes that we might succeed.
We’ll transfer that last embryo.
Of course we will. We won’t leave it alone in the dark.
Probably in the summer. We’ve reverted to our original plan to go and visit Q.’s family in the middle of the year, so we won’t start anything at the clinic until after we’ve returned.
But after that? When it fails? (I can’t even bring myself to write ‘If’ because of course it will fail. FETs fail with me. It’s what they do.)
I don’t want to look at what comes next.
By the time we are through with that final FET, we will have spent as much of our own money (or possibly even a bit more- I’ve lost count) on failed efforts to bring home a 2.0 as we did trying to bring home our first baby.
In December, Q. and I agreed that this would be our LAST.RETRIEVAL.EVER.
When we found out that only one embryo was frozen, and we’d had another terrible attrition rate (70%), I freaked out.
All I could think about was: one more chance.
Everyone told me to let go of the anxiety about the future, to concentrate on the current cycle.
Yet here we are again.
One more chance.
And not even one I believe in.