Mourning & Moping

Saturday 6:39 pm

I haven’t brushed my teeth today.  I’m still in my pajamas.  I refuse to leave the house.

I haven’t felt this way since my mom died.  The same raw, always-on-the-verge-of-tears feeling that set in immediately after hearing the news, even though I was half-expecting it, and didn’t leave for days.

In the two and a half hours between the time I initially called the clinic on Friday and the time someone actually answered the phone, I caved.  Mostly due to Hubby’s increasing anxiety, I asked if he’d feel better if I just went ahead and peed on something.  The test was negative.  I tried to explain it away by arguing that I’d had a lot to drink that afternoon and my pee was probably very diluted.  But I knew.

Still, when I heard those words, “We do have the results of your bloodwork.  Unfortunately, it’s negative,” I still crumbled, much like I had when my sister told me mom was gone, even though I suspected as much, given that Hubby had interrupted my shower that morning to tell me both my sister and my dad had tried calling several times, much earlier than any casual conversation warranted, but wouldn’t tell him what was going on.  Hearing those words from someone else, someone who had the numbers (or lack thereof) in front of her, was like a punch to the gut.  When she asked if I had any other questions, all I could do was squeak out a no before hanging up and bursting into tears.

Sunday 10:44 am

I feel a little better today.  Maybe because numbness is taking over.  Maybe because Hubby and TV are doing their best to distract me.  Thank goodness for the DVR.  Hubby forced gently cajoled me into getting out of the house last night.  I showered, brushed my teeth, and put clothes on for a trip to Target to get Hubby a new bedside lamp.  While we were out, I stocked up on candy because that’s all I really felt like eating.  I wanted to drown my sorrows in sugar.

But I slept much better after that.  Friday night was the worst.  I finally fell asleep after reading a couple of chapters of Bossypants, a book I’ve been eager to dive into over the past couple of days for a much-needed laugh.  I woke up at about 2:30 and proceeded to spiral into angry thoughts.  Bitter and frustrated, I kept asking myself the same question: Why didn’t it work?

We did everything right.  Every injection, every medication, every instruction followed to a T.  And in the end, it didn’t matter.  Our genetically perfect embryo and his mystery twin didn’t hang around.

After about a half hour of this torture, I followed my therapist’s advice and got out of bed.  I went into the living room and wrote down all of these angry thoughts.  A sample of my 3 am rantings:

Why didn’t this work?  After all the money, injections, worry, hope, we ended up with 2 embryos.  One of them was genetically perfect, so why did neither of them stick?  Did the lab screw up?  Should we not have done the transfer at all?  Were our embryos somehow defective & they didn’t tell us?  Or is it my body that fucked up?  Is there something wrong with my uterus?  Why would at least one perfectly good 6-day embryo not stick around in there?  What’s wrong with me?

This was supposed to work.  And the fact that it didn’t feels like a punishment of some kind.  I spend my working life helping other families raise their kids.  Why am I not allowed to do it for myself?

You get the idea.  It goes on like this for two full pages and then some.  Then I watched some mindless TV.  Just when I thought I had succeeded in pushing the questions and bitterness out of my mind, the sadness crept back in.  I had snuggled into the couch with a pillow and blanket, and the tears flooded back.  I sobbed as quietly as I could so as not to wake up Hubby.  Finally, sometime after 4:30, I fell asleep, only to wake up two hours later and head back to bed.  Where I stayed until 11:00 Saturday morning.

Sunday 2:47 pm

Yesterday morning, while I was still in bed, I heard the phone ring and Hubby answer.  I couldn’t hear his half of the conversation but found out later that it was Dr. C calling to offer his condolences.  On a Saturday morning.  When he was out of town.  Doesn’t make up for the shit hand we’ve been dealt, but it’s nice to know people actually care that it didn’t work out.

Like all of you.  The comments on my last post brought fresh tears to my eyes.  Each one like a warm hug I let myself sink into.  It was not the way I imagined my weekend going.  I honestly thought I would have good news to share on Friday.  I’d even talked myself into feeling some mild nausea both Thursday and Friday, before we got the results.  My family left thinking they were leaving me in a good place.  Instead, I texted my sister once I knew they’d landed, saying it hadn’t worked and I didn’t want to talk about it.

Hubby, on the other hand, spent over an hour on the phone with his brother yesterday afternoon.  His brother and his wife also went through several rounds of IVF and two 2nd trimester losses before being blessed with the two healthy boys they have now.  Still, he basically advised us to “just relax.”  “Go on vacation,” he said.  “That’s what finally worked for us.”

His family is hopeful this will eventually work for us, and offered us more money to help us get there.  Which I have mixed feelings about.  On one hand, I’m blown away by their generosity.  On the other, we took a big chunk of money from Hubby’s uncle for this cycle, and look how well that turned out.

Hubby insists we will try again.  He’s even more determined to get a job somewhere, and is even talking about going to his home country just for a couple of months, for the sole purpose of trying another round where it’s more affordable.

Obviously, I’m still mourning the loss of possibility this cycle, but I do want to try again.  The question–always–is how we’ll pay for it.  We had everything riding on this cycle.  Almost all of our savings.  Hubby is still unemployed.  How are we supposed to save money when we’re barely scraping by as it is?  We’ve discussed fundraising and grants, but it’s all a bit too much for me to wrap my brain around at the moment.

I’m not used to failing, but lately that seems to be direction our lives have taken.  Hubby has failed to find a job.  Now we’ve failed to conceive, even with the most advanced medical technology available.  We have no embryos and only 3 vials of Hubby’s frozen sperm left.  He’s back on testosterone, so there will be no more of that any time soon, and no chance of miraculously conceiving on our own.  We’re back at square one.

And now, I’m going to crawl back into my hole and wallow a bit more.  Eventually, we’ll find a way forward.

Sunday 9:52 pm

I have to go to work tomorrow.  Everyone knows.  I made it clear that I wouldn’t discuss the results of Friday’s beta one way or the other, and I hope my coworkers hold me to it and just don’t ask.  That’s assuming I can keep my emotions in check and don’t give it away by immediately bawling as soon as someone makes eye contact, which is exactly what I’m afraid will happen instead.  That’s what happened when my mom died.  I hate being that girl at work.  The one who cries all the time.  And by “all the time” I mean ever.  I’m no good at public displays of emotion.  I’m not even that good at private ones, other than with Hubby.

I hate that this is my life right now.

29 thoughts on “Mourning & Moping

  1. oh my gosh, I hate that you are going through this. I wish there was something comforting I could say. you’re grieving, just like when your mom died. I have a post on grief
    or just google, “stages of grief” or “surviving grief” or something like that. What you are feeling is normal and expected. A support group might help. Have you checked

    hugs to you!

  2. Thank you so much for sharing your story. I read the last post and now this one, and many before as my husband and I prepare to begin IVF next week. Your posts have helped prepare me mentally for what’s to come. Even though I know it won’t make things better, won’t make babies or money fall from the sky, you’re a beautiful writer who’s words have helped others like you. So thank you. From one subfertility sister to another, my thoughts are with you and your family during this difficult time. Really truly.

  3. Oh honeybun, you are doing a really good job of dealing with all this shit. And if hubby does move back to his home country for a bit… is that country Australia? Because you could come too and that would be fun 😉

  4. oh hon, I’m just so so so sorry. There’s nothing I can really say other than that I’m thinking of you and hoping that once you guys have had your time to really mourn and sit with this that you’re able to consider some of the other really good offers and possibilities it seems like you’re starting to think about. But I know it doesn’t make up in any way, at all, for how hard this news is.

  5. I’m so sorry, Daryl. I’ve been there. A failed IVF cycle in general, but especially with all you guys have been through, is so hard to swallow. Know that even under absolutely perfect circumstances, I’ve never heard of a given cycle having more than a 60% chance of working. I hope you guys will be able to find a way to try again, but for now, take care of yourselves as best you can. It won’t always been this painful.

  6. I’m so sorry!!! It sucks enough to have a “regular” cycle fail. But after putting so much time, money, and pain into it, it just seems so unfair when it doesn’t work. I’m glad you’re still looking toward the future though. Do what you have to do to get through this rough time & best of luck to you in whatever comes next.

  7. I hate this for you, too. It makes me hurt for you, Daryl. I have been in places somewhat similar to this and I understand the despair that accompanies it. Just take all the time to grieve that you need to. And eventually, there will come a time, when you’re ready to move forward. I’m so sorry. Thinking of you today as you return to work.

  8. I’m so sorry to read this post 😦 It brought back MANY familiar feelings. We went through so many medicated cycles, I eventually lost count. Each one was “perfect” according to the RE and we fully expected, if not one, possibly multiples. None of them ever worked. I know that feeling of defeat and hopelessness and not wanting to talk to anyone about it, especially at work. To top it off, I was a nanny to two small children while going through all of it. It seems unbearable, but at least for me, eventually things did turn around. Hang in there are know that people are thinking of you and sending you lots of positive thoughts through the blogosphere. You are not alone…many of us have been right there in your shoes. Big hugs to you!

  9. Sending warm hugs, and strength to make it through the first day (and week) of work which must be such a challenge. My heart goes out to you and hubs. So sorry you have to go through all this.

  10. I am just catching up my lovely. I am so so sorry. This whole thing sucks asssss! I hate this for you. If I was you I would wallow and mope as long as you need. I am so sorry.

  11. Nobody’s situations are identical, but I know a lot of what you’re talking about – the numbness, the shock, the waking up in the middle of the night because the sorrow is overpowering. I am very, very sorry that you’re having to endure this.

    Good luck at work. Some people take smoke breaks. Me? I take cry breaks. Way more often than I’d like anyone to know about.

  12. Man I have to say that I’m surprised that a couple who have been through both failed cycles and 2nd trimester losses are still telling you to relax.
    I’m so sorry you’re stuck going through this. *hugs*

  13. I’m new here, stopping in from Searching for our Silver Lining…I’m so terribly sorry. Infertility SUCKS and no one deserves to feel how you are feeling now. I’m so sorry you are going through this.

  14. This brings back so many memories from our first failed IVF cycle. It’s so hard when you go in knowing that you have 1 or 2 great, PERFECT embryos. You just expect it to work, and so does everyone around you. When it fails, it’s devastating. I’m sorry that you have to navigate your way through this.

    Hang in there. Thinking of you!

  15. Nothing I can add to what’s been said above other than to just let you know that I’m here and I’m crying along with you. I wish this didn’t have to happen to any of us, least of all when there’s no explanation as to why it didn’t work. Thinking of you lots.

  16. I hate this for you. Just hate it. I am crying reading this. Please don’t give up. Let yourself mourn this, and try not to overwhelm yourself trying to come up with the “What’s Next?” Plan right away. I totally understand the need to figure out what to do next in order to feel more in control of something you can’t control. Try and give yourself a few days before you try to tackle that question, though. I hope today was tolerable at work. We’re all thinking of you and sending copious amounts of hugs.

  17. I’m sorry you have this grief to work through. I’m sorry that this didn’t work out. All the hope, all the excitement, all for naught. It is a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. I hope you find ways to seek peace and solace in the next few days, weeks, and months.

  18. I am so sorry this didn’t work. My heart is breaking for you. I really hope you will be able to try again. Take all the time to mourn and wallow as you need.

  19. I’m so sorry, Daryl. I am with you in the sorrow of a failed IVF cycle. We had two perfect embies (a boy and a girl) and we did EVERYTHING right, and still, no dice. It’s so unfair. I feel that the failed IVF was the toughest blow I’ve experienced on this journey, so please take your time to mourn and be pissed off at the fates, and when you’re ready you can keep going in which ever direction you choose. xo

  20. Daryl, I’ve been following you through this IVF cycle with such cautious hope, and I’m devastated right along with you to get this news. I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to comment, but know that I have been, and will continue, to think of you. This is such a shit blow, to invest so much and to come away with no baby and no answers and no guarantees about the future. It sucks and I wish there was some way to ease your incredible pain. My wish to the universe is for you to find some peace and the strength to keep fighting the good fight – you can do this, you can take whatever comes next, because you are strong and determined and know that this is worth it. i hope your lucky break is right around the corner. In the meantime, be kind to yourself, k?

  21. When I read your post, I transported back in time, to wearing a nightgown at 3 PM, staring blankly at the TV. The only thing I can tell you is that you will feel better eventually (though I still get sad when I look at our embryo pictures). I say keep writing and let it all out, then find something, even if it’s just a few days in the sunshine to focus on.

  22. I’m so sorry sweetie. 😦 I know this pain, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. There’s nothing I can say to make it any better, but please know that I’m thinking of you. HUGS….

  23. Pingback: Throwback #MicroblogMondays | Something Out of Nothing

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