No longer positive. 5 weeks and 3 days. Our sixth pregnancy is over.
I knew from the very moment I saw that late weak positive there was no hope for the little one. No hope for me. Doomed from the start.
Infertility has played yet another cruel joke on me, spurring me on with progressively stronger positives and symptoms before taking it all away. Allowing my telltale sign–the beautiful buzzing abdominal hum I get each time– to rage, filling me with hope and promise and love. Then to stop it all in an instance. There aren’t many experiences quite as deflating as watching BFPs progressively fade to nothingness.
And now I get to wait for the full sensory experience of my tormented cramping womb screaming out in anger as the sweet pea begins to slip away from inside me. How long I have to wait for that I have no idea.
I have been through this so many times but I still, somehow, relentlessly add up all the things I have done to potentially cause this loss. Someone has got to take the blame. It has got to be me.
And now, cruelly, I am beginning to grasp that I will never ever have a child.
I am a fool for ever thinking this might work one day. Shit eggs + shit womb = no hope in hell. There’s no point in proceeding with egg donation if I can’t nurture a baby in the wasteland that is my womb. And there’s no point in surrogacy if I can’t produce a single decent egg for someone else to carry for me. I will likely never bear a child or contribute to the making of one. I can only contribute to death and loss.
This is me not coping. This is me one inch away from burning down my house, getting on the first flight to Nepal alone with nothing more than my passport, or binge drinking myself into a coma. I’m not sure which one.
As I commuted home last night, conscious of impending trauma, after a week at my new job where I have to be disgustingly ambitious, motivated and keen, no one gave a shit. Why should they. They don’t know my story. I wanted to shout at them all “I AM LOSING MY SIXTH PREGNANCY, BE NICE TO ME!!” but I didn’t. Instead I allowed them to push me and shove me and step on me as they do everyday on my journey home. Instead I listened to my colleagues talk about how drunk they got at a fancy dress party when I was was busy sobbing myself to sleep. My story does not matter to them or to anyone. It only matters to me.
Nothing else matters anymore besides this story. I have no feelings for anything or anyone. I feel empty of everything but hate. I have never felt more alone in all my life. I can’t relate to anyone.
Regret, guilt, rage. I brought this on myself. If we had only started earlier, if we had only not moved across the world at a time when people start having families, if only we had not put ourselves, our ambitions first. We wouldn’t be in this situation. Running out of time, out of options, out of money. It is my fault and I have to face the consequences for the selfish naive decisions of my foolish younger years. Nothing will make me feel differently about these choices. I deserve this punishment.
Today the only thing getting me through my day is the idea of heavily self-medicating as I cry myself to sleep. Dosing up enough in hopes that I sleep through the miscarriage. How I tackle tomorrow I have no idea. Oh what great things I have to look forward to.