when hope is lost…

Fuck. I’ll begin by saying I have no good news. Yesterday at 11dp3dt, my super-sensitive pee stick detected no sign of hCG whatsoever. Sure, there’s a chance it’s still a bit too early, but let’s just say I’m not too hopeful that my beta on Friday will have a different result. In fact, I wish I could just cancel it. No need to rub salt in my fresh wounds.  

Oh, how I wish this could be a different post. How I wish that instead of pouring the sorrow from my gut, I was trying to gingerly find a way to share cause for rejoicing, a shred of hope. How I wish I could join my fellow bloggers cautiously embracing their wonderful news. But it is apparently not to be. And so I preface the following (long post warning) with a “sure, miracles can happen,” but they don’t usually happen to me. And I’ve been on the crap side of statistics enough to know the familiar sting of yet another defeat. The biggest. fattest. fucking. negative. ever. Of course if 48 hours makes a world of difference, I will so very happily eat my words. 

So how do I feel?  Let me count the ways… 

I feel deflated, depressed.  In my heart I had such high hopes for this IVF.  It was our best chance.  It was our only chance.  I truly believed I would become pregnant. There was every reason to think it would work.  There was no way it could not work.  After all we had been through.  After my excellent response.  I was so excited I could not even fall asleep.  I was so very hopeful.  I tried to let go of all fear.  I was dreaming big and soaring high.  But what goes up must come down, I guess.  Now I just feel letdown.  I feel sorrow and ache.  Distracted.  Despondent.  Empty. 

I feel defeated, like a failure.  Once again my body has shown it is simply incapable of sustaining a pregnancy.  Even when bypassing my crusty tubes and pesky ovary, and compensating for poor morphology with help from the lab.  And still, my womb refused to hold two beautiful healthy embryos – 8 perfect cells with zero fragmentation – the best of the bunch.  It refused to carry even one tiny perfect embryo.  Which begs the question: what is wrong with me?!  Seriously, what the hell is wrong with my body that it can’t even accept the most perfectly gorgeous gifts, hand crafted by the most skilled technician and delivered with the utmost care?  Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s just not meant to be.  No, not because of god’s will.  Not because I’m being punished.  But because I just seem completely incapable of fulfilling the most natural elemental function in the world.  I feel defeated and betrayed by my own body.  Again.

I feel bewildered, disillusioned.  There is no reason why this should not have worked.  There is every reason why it should have.  Is it my old eggs?  Poor sperm?  Is my womb scarred for life? Did I sneeze out those embryos with that terrible cold on transfer day?  Was my mental state not positive enough?  Am I now paying for every poor choice I’ve ever made with my body?  In truth, I will never know why this failed.  Which means that even if we had another 12-15k that we were willing to spend on another attempt, the outcome would not necessarily change.  It’s not like my protocol would be tweaked to yield more eggs or better quality embryos.  I had 30 mature eggs that resulted in 15 good quality embryos, some of which were excellent.  No, I have to assume it’s my useless hoohah that’s refusing to do its fucking job.   If I didn’t think she was listening, I’d say listen beotch, you are so fucking fired.

I feel powerless.  I tried to take control of my fertility, to overcome our many obstacles.  I accepted that we needed help and sought the best available.  I put my faith in experts and technology.  I gave up control of my own body.  But not even the best RE can fix me.  Not even the most high-tech science can help me.  I feel doomed and inextricably linked to a fate I did not choose and cannot change.  I feel forced to accept this cold-hearted truth.  I may reclaim my body, I may shift my attitude, but I cannot change my destiny.  

I feel drained, exhausted.  Physically, emotionally, financially, I am spent.  I’m so tired of so many things, but this I will save for another post.  It’s not just the early morning visits an hour away.  It’s not just the bruises and holes in my belly and butt.  It’s the toll of raised expectations quickly dashed, of shattered hopes and dreams.  It’s the toll of the incessant need to feel positive but never with a good outcome.  Of feeling pitied and pitiful.  What is the cost of trusting so deeply in something that lets you down?  What price do we pay for holding everything in, for hiding inside our life until it (hopefully) improves?  What is the cost of our privacy, our self-esteem?  The impact is immeasurable. 

I feel forsaken, alone.  Forever left behind. Denied. Destined to be excluded from the joy of parenthood, doomed to never experience the sacred bond between mother and child.  Like I will never experience the profound wonder of a healthy pregnancy or birth.  Like I will never know the awe of gazing into my baby’s beaming eyes, the bliss of motherhood.  More than a failure as a woman and wife, which is hard enough, I fear I will never know how it feels to be a mother, with all of its joys and challenges. 

I feel incomplete, unsettled.  Unhinged.  Like I will never be right with this, that I will never fully accept this fate, that I will never truly find peace.  I feel I will never escape the pain of facing the belly of a pregnant woman, watching her lovingly caress her growing baby, or seeing a new mother gently cradle her newborn to breastfeed, or parents with toddlers and strollers in the market or park.  I don’t think I will ever hear the sweet laughter of a child and not be reminded that it will never be my child.  This is not acceptable.

I feel hopeless.  I feel no faith.  I can’t even look into someone’s eyes without feeling like they could see deep down into my tormented spirit.  In many ways, I feel as I did after I lost my baby boy nearly two years ago.  I feel a deep sense of loss, of grief that will live within me forever.  I ask myself now, as I did back then, will this pain ever go away?  Will this sorrow stay at the surface or will it subside?  Will it rise up as anger or bitterness?  What happens when hope is lost?  How does it feel to give up on a dream?  Right now I just want to know, will I ever be whole?

~ by luna on January 3, 2008.