Life in our Shoes

I have been through many, many failed cycles on my TTC journey. Clomid cycles, injectable cycles, IUI cycles, but nothing could have prepared me for the emotional hit of a failed IVF cycle.

Sure, I knew, logically that it wasn’t a guarantee. I went into it cautiously optimisitic. Or I thought I was being cautious. Clearly not enough. I had the mindset of it worked for me six years ago, why not now? Simply put, it’s been six years. My eggs are not in the same condition they were in when I was in my twenties. Toss in the variable of this being a frozen cycle, and well, the odds drop again.

I’ll be honest, I was fairly certain that I was pregnant. I was afraid to admit it out loud, but I was sure. I had several symptoms, that could also be attributed to the progesterone injections, but I wanted to believe that it was pregnancy. So I did. It was a mistake.

I went for my bloodwork at 9:30 AM. I was told to expect a call between 1 and 3. I was also assured that they call “in no particular order”, so if I am getting a call closer to 3, it doesn’t mean it is bad news. As it got closer and closer to 3, I started freaking out more and more. I checked the clock every minute. Passing the time trying to put together Thing 2′s Transformer that now sits in pieces on my kitchen table. The phone didn’t ring until 2:58. TWO freaking FIFTY EIGHT!!!!! And I knew. Regardless of the fact that they call in no particular order, I just knew.

If I didn’t know from that, I would have know from the tone in her voice. The fake pleasantries as she asked how I was doing. Does she really need to ask me that? Just tell me the results and be done with it. The words “I’m sorry, the test was negative” hit me like a hammer in the chest. I didn’t hear much else of what she said. Some lame excuse as to why they called so late, blahblahblah. I just wanted to hang up.

Then I sat. I didn’t cry. I just sat. And stared. I replayed that call in my head 100 times, trying to see if maybe I heard her wrong. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe she dialed the wrong number. Maybe she was going to call back and say it was a mistake. That was my shock and denial phase. It lasted all of three minutes. Then I cried. I called my parents and hid in my room. And cried. Knowing full well that I needed to pull my self together to leave for a Christmas party in 30 minutes. I blocked out all emotion. Threw on some makeup to cover up my red blotchiness, loaded everyone in the car and put on a brave face.

After the torture of a family Christmas party, on a day that I wasn’t the only one in the family to receive bad news, we dropped the kids off with their father. I came home and focused as hard as I could on computer games and anything to occupy my mind. As soon as I climbed into bed and realized I didn’t need to ice myself for my injection the tears came. Like waves. Again and again tearing down the wall I so carefully built all day long. Then I slept. Hard. When I woke up, my eyes were swollen and buggy and generally awful. But, I was out of tears. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I stayed in my PJs and played Xbox all day long. Then I ate Chinese food, watched Inception and decided to move on.

I still make that decision several times a day. The decision to not dwell on this. To know that I still have to embies on ice and I can try again. I feel little cracks in the wall, but I can plug them up. And I do. And I move on. And if it never works, I still have this….

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