It’s not even Fertile Friday

For a bunch of infertiles I have got to say today is one freaking fertile day out there in the blogosphere. I think I counted at least five BFPs today. Seriously. These are great numbers ladies. It’s boding well for team IF. Keep it up!

Sending happy sticky vibes to you all. Well done xx



Rough day

One day. One day of feeling good about something and the next day I’m back in the hole. I fucking hate infertility.

Yesterday was such a good day. I quit my job, I was feeling confident about the change. Still am. I got lots of encouraging messages from you ladies supporting me on this positive step, I felt great. I woke up feeling lighter and hopeful for the future.

I even made plans to see a friend, R, whom I haven’t seen since before my last miscarriage. I haven’t seen her for that long because she is not the kind of person I can speak to about our losses and infertility. She is the person who once told me to “pretend the babies weren’t real. Pretend like they never happened.” You get where I’m coming from.

But today, in light of recent change, I thought I could actually get together with R and not discuss TTC but just catch up like old times, talk about the new job. I mentioned this morning to the Husband that that I was seeing her tonight as I know he caught up with her man a few weeks ago. He called me later this afternoon to tell me that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to see her tonight. When I asked him why and he explained he has a hunch, based on his conversation with her other half, that they might be expecting and that she might drop the baby bomb on me.

Interesting. OK well there is only one way to find out. Me being me I cut to the chase. I am not going to allow myself to be blindsided in a one-on-one this evening so I texted her that I needed to know before I saw her if that was the case. It didn’t come out quite as I planned and I may have sounded a little mental but I got the message across that I couldn’t handle being put on the spot right now.

People seem to be making a habit of putting me on the spot with this kind of news, as if it’s easier that way, face to face. No no no! Give it to me in a text, an email, a letter. Some format so I don’t have to see your face or hear your voice and so I don’t have to run away with tears in my eyes or so you don’t hear my sobs in the background. Some way so I never have to see you again. Give me impersonal. It’s the only way.

Well turns out the Husband was right. I know you know that feeling. The drop of the stomach muscles,the nausea, the throat constricting, the welling up of eyes, the lack of concentration, the complete feeling that life is passing you by.

She confirmed it to me by text thankfully. This is the same friend who confided in me her fear that she might never get pregnant because of her erratic periods. They have been trying for two months. Two bloody months.

I learned after a very confusing text exchange that actually my husband has known since his chat with her man. That he has been keeping it from me thinking this would be adding insult to injury after learning of my SIL’s pregnancy and the AMH bomb. That he was trying to protect me from additional pain. They told him so he could tell me when he thought I was ready. Nice thought. Except he didn’t. Except I wasn’t ready. Except I found out from her. Except it backfired in his face. In my face.

What makes this so hard is that we had explicitly agreed with the Husband that under no circumstances will he ever keep this kind of news from me. Not ever. I need to know immediately what he knows. I will not be kept in the dark. It’s not fair. Everyone tip-toeing around me, like they could blow me over with a single breath. Everyone in the know but me. No. I would rather hear it from him yes, but he should have told me straight away. He promised me.

And now I am crushed. I am hurt. I am furious. He explains that it was all for my protection but screw that. This is not protecting me. This is ostracising me even more than I ostracise myself. He has finally admitted that he needed a reprieve. A reprieve from me. From my tears. From my meltdowns. Instead, if he had told me when we learned of the other shit news, I probably would have laughed like a crazy person and been satisfied that at least the bad new happened in threes. And then I would have gotten over it. Because at the end of the day I don’t care really about R and her pregnancy. I can avoid her.

Yes it does bother me that everyone I seem to know in real life on this godforsaken planet is knocked up, to the point where I at least there isn’t anyone else to add to the list. Yes it does feel like they’ve all been invited to this perfect pregnancy party and I am the only one not invited. But I’ll just add R to the shelf of other retired knocked up friends.

What I do care about is being betrayed by the only person who is going through this terrible journey with me. Maybe I’m being too hard on him, maybe his emotions are allowed to screw shit up now and then. Mine certainly do. But come on. I was doing so well.

I hate that this has put a rift between us. I hate that we are in this position. I hate that we hide things from each other to prevent further pain. I hate that we are in pain.

I hate how infertility shakes you to your very core. How it pulls the rug out from under you when you least expect it. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. I hate feeling like this. Recklessness. I am so sick of it. I was doing so well. So much for that.

Out of the blue

I had to share something that just blew my socks off with kindness. But also because I want to be able to reread this again over and over. Never one for sharing his emotions or believing in fate or destiny or cheesy emotional interactions, the Hubs came up to me as I was laying in bed, and out of the blue came out with this:

“The other night when we were holding each after receiving even more bad news I had this weird sixth sense kind of feeling come over me. It hit me like a brick. I’ve never felt anything stronger. It was an absolute complete sense of knowing that this is going to happen for us. It scared me a little bit because it was so strong and overpowering but it pulsated from your body. It was a message from your body to mine that we are going to get through this with the result we want.

Your body is intelligent, it knows what to do, it wants the chance to do this. But it’s waiting for your mind to catch up. I know it’s hard but the universe is telling us to have faith. There is now no doubt in my mind what the future holds for us.”

This is pretty much exactly what I needed to hear at that exact moment in time. I love that man. I wish I could keep him in my pocket all day long to remind me of his vision. Instead this post will have to do.

Keep em coming

Just wanted to thank you all for the wonderful reading material I’ve had over the last few days. It’s been pretty active out there in Blogworld and I’ve really enjoyed reading all the posts.

It’s been a while since my last post while I attempt to sort through job offers, digest medical reports and test results, coping with the breaking news that my SIL is pregnant, plus trying to figure out why I haven’t ovulated this cycle (WTF is that about?!) It’s pretty chaotic at the moment and I have a lot on my mind that I want to get down and will do when I get a moment to breathe and reflect. But in the meantime I’ve found the information and stories and feelings shared out there in Blogworld completely fascinating, informative, encouraging and heartfelt. I’ve been laughing and crying on my train journeys into work everyday. People think I’m mental! You ladies are all incredibly intelligent, humorous, insightful and strong.

Letter to friends

This is a letter I wish I had the courage to send but the truth is it will never go anywhere but here. It should be distributed to about 95% of my social circle. (Not you guys obviously, you’re already more supportive than I ever could have imagined.) It’s for everyone else who pretends they are my friend when it couldn’t feel further from the truth.

Dear friends,

You may have noticed in the past year that I have started pulling away. Started removing myself from social get-togethers. Stopped calling, emailing, visiting, quit Facebook. Many of you know the reason why, some of you know part of the reason why. But I don’t think any of you didn’t realise I was going through a difficult time.

Truth is I’m in a great deal of pain. I struggle to get up in the morning. I struggle to sleep and eat properly and all I think about is how empty I feel. I want nothing more than to stay in bed day after day. I don’t want to work or to hang out or to talk. I want this pain to go away.

And although I initiated this self-exile, no one has reached out to me to see if I am coping, to see how I am doing. Every one of you has been silent.

At first I was expected to carry on with normal life. To attend the birthday gatherings, carry on with laughing, small talk, gossip. Then slowly over time, after further losses, the cards stopped coming and the contact just stopped altogether.

It’s to be expected. I wouldn’t know how to deal with me if I was you. Because you are happy. You have a full life and family or you’re blissfully expecting or you don’t get what all the fuss is about. Some of you even know what it’s like to struggle to achieve a family but you got there in the end. And you are the ones, strangely, I’ve heard absolutely nothing from.

And although I’ve gone to great pains to avoid becoming the elephant in the room, or the one silently whispered about, that’s exactly what I seem to have become. And to no fault of your own. I realise how horrific my scenario might seem. By avoiding me you are avoiding pain. No one likes pain. It’s easier to look the other way.

And I know some of you wish I would stop dramatising and just pull my finger out. Snap out of it. Relax. I truly wish I could snap my fingers and change what’s happened, or to take the pain away. But I can’t. There is no going back. I have lost a part of myself and I won’t be the same person again. I don’t know if you could understand that if you haven’t been through it.

But I know one thing, and I don’t think it’s the experience with IF and RPL talking, but I never would have allowed a friend to endure this silently. I would have continued to try to connect, whatever response I got. Because people retreat when they’re in pain, like when animals retreat to lick their wounds. Support couldn’t be more important at a time like this.

There are one or two people who have been there for me. Checking in even if they know I’m at my lowest point. Insisting to see me so they can put their shoulder under my head. But this letter is not addressed to them.

What is now clear is who I can count on. Seriously count on. It’s a lot fewer people than I thought.

I’m not saying all this to get a response from you. Because I think we are past that now. I just want to get this off my chest because I feel it needs to be said. And I’m not saying it’s too late for us. I’m not saying I won’t bounce back one day or pick up the phone to start over.

That day feels like a long way away. After five losses none of it matters anymore. I’m not sure how long I will feel this way. But I would hope, as my friend, as a human being, that even if you don’t understand how I feel that you could empathise. And if you were to even encounter another friend going through a similar situation that you might take a different approach next time. At this point, this letter is more for them than it is for me.

Your friend,


I’ve decided to add a page to keep track of all the great blogs I’m following. So after a bit of work it’s finally up and running.

Thanks to you all for the continued inspiration xx

Blog buddies

I never began this blog thinking that people would read it. It started as a way to get my thoughts down, an electronic easy to access journal. But more than that, to store them in cyber space as proof that these events took place and these feelings were felt. And that they meant something to me. And although I want to forget it all and make all the sadness go away I felt I needed a way to be able to reflect on how I am coping in this process. To see that I do in fact have some good days mixed in the with bad ones, when things don’t seem as heavy as they do 90% of the time.

I do have mixed feelings about this blog. It’s hard to write or reread my own posts. I relive the hurt and frustration all over again each time. But once written it feels good. Lighter. And since I’ve become a serial friend dumper this has been my selected method of communication. Although I’m not willing to make myself vulnerable to judgement in the outside world, I am more than happy to do it here.

But what I never wrapped my head around is that others would read this too. The gratitude and assurance I feel when I read from comments from you guys has made this process even more cathartic than I ever would have imagined. You have made me realise that although I know next to no one in my day to day life going through what I’m going through, there are a whole lot of you out there suffering silently too.

Reading the blogs written by you lovely people about the hardship you are enduring hurts too. Not only because I am a human being and seeing others enduring pain makes me sad, but because I can relate to your stories, I can understand your hurt and frustration and anger and anxiety. Your blogs make me cry, laugh, curse with you. Seeing the strength you ladies have, faced with your own difficult and unfair situation, has helped me find strength to endure it too. Or to at least try to. It’s not like we have a choice really is it? At least we can make it easier on ourselves by sticking together.

And while I find it heartbreaking that we are all part of this invisible community of loss and heartache, a community none of us elected to be in, I do feel connected to everyone out there. A bond that is more meaningful than some of my longest lasting friendships. Where emptiness is understood. That I can say anything to you guys and you might actually tolerate it. You might even understand it, or might even relate in some way. And there’s something encouraging and uplifting and liberating about that.

And even in this short time since I’ve started this blog I’m actually feeling a bit lighter. A bit less bogged down, one blog at a time.

Tell no one…ok maybe just one

I met up with a friend last night for a tasty non alcoholic beverage. These days meeting up with friends ends with me in tears, swearing to never see them again. This time I left feeling lighter and supported.

My friend has been through a journey similar to mine and she ended up at the end of her journey without children. Not happily so but she has made the best of it. It still brings her to tears to discuss her losses (she had four), and to discuss the outcome of their journey. She melted upon learning of mine.

I’d been hesitant for some time to tell this friend although she is the only one I know personally who has had a similar journey to mine. Firstly because my rule is Tell No One. And secondly, I have been too scared to approach her with it.

I didn’t want to dredge up any sadness for her but also because I selfishly didn’t want to face the possibility that I could end up like her: without children. I know this is a possible outcome for me. I’m still too scared to consider it. But as much as she makes the best of it I know she carries around a serious weight, a grief that will be with her forever. This terrifies me although I know that no matter what the outcome of my journey, I too will be carrying a grief around forever. I know that never goes away.

I decided to tell her because I knew she could relate. And she does. They started trying around the same time we did, all naturally conceived and lost. She explained that they never consciously gave up, but they no longer sought after it. The investigations became too onerous, and the losses too devastating, something I can totally relate to. It has been five years since her last loss and she is into menopause but her grief is still palpable.

She had warned me once many years ago through teary broken eyes don’t wait too long. It was hearing this that made me realise it was time to get our act together. That maybe sometimes things can go wrong. How true has that become.

As we spoke last night she just said the right things. She just nodded with knowing. It was a kind of support I get through this blog, through support groups, through forums, but haven’t received yet from a friend. And I’m so happy I was able to open up to her. I was able to lower my guard just this once.

We cried. We cursed. We laughed. We cursed some more.

I felt relief after leaving her. Like a small part of my burden had been lifted. Or shared. What a difference that can make.

Coping this week

Man this week has been tough. It’s been only six days since my colleague and close friend has announced she’s been “given” my pregnancy. Yep, transplanted directly from my womb into hers.

I say that. It’s not actually true but it might as well be. That’s how it feels.

Every minute of my work day is torture. She is a living breathing reminder of everything I have lost.

I sit next to her. This sucks.

I’m resentful. I’m hurt. I’m fed up. Why does someone who doesn’t even want a kid get one without even trying? Because that’s life’s cruel joke on me.

I say screw her and her giant coffee she’s drinking all blasé! When was the last time I could drink a coffee without being paranoid it would spontaneously eject the fetus inside me? Must be at least a million years ago.

Now I sit and await the joyous announcement to our office and my best mates. That announcement will condemn me as the token infertile, the failure, the miserable one, the elephant in the room.

But I have taken the first step towards fulfilling my promise to myself. My promise of self preservation. To be out of there as soon as possible. I am on the job hunt. My CV is in circulation. I’ve been in touch with two recruiters. I have extended my holiday so I don’t have to be there when she tells everyone.

Seems extreme I know. But it’s the least terrible solution I can come up with.

And suddenly the promise of a new and anonymous future looks bright. It’s a change a bit quicker than expected, yes. But a good change.

I think.

T minus 39 days.