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.