Where I am: CD26
No, I don’t think that’s an actual term. I made it up. But I think it best describes what happened last night.
I got the BFN to end all BFNs (aka: a beta) on Wednesday. And I surprisingly took it well. I dusted myself off, ordered my next round of meds, and said “Better luck next time.” I went home to my husband, drank way too much wine (the hangover lasted all day…thank you, TTC, for making my tolerance basically zero), cooked dinner with him, got tons of snuggles and TV-watching in to make up for him being gone for 5 days, and went to bed. It was, more or less, an uneventful day.
And then for some reason (probably the hangover), I was just down all day yesterday. I felt like crap, physically. I had a somewhat good day, watching YouTube videos at work (boss is away at an expo) and getting coffee with a friend on my lunch hour. I had dinner with my parents, watched Survivor and Blacklist and some of the Bruins game. Went home, turned on Netflix, watched Parenthood until J came home.
And then he asked me if I was okay. I seemed off. What was wrong? I could talk to him. Was I upset about the failed cycle?
And I said I didn’t know. And then I said I was nervous. And then I said I wasn’t upset about the first Clomid cycle not working because I was actually scared of it being successful. I told him I was terrified of seeing that second line, because it would feel like the beginning of the end all over again. I’d be anxious and second-guessing every bit of spotting, every twinge in my abdomen, every second my boobs didn’t hurt. And then, if we were that lucky, we’d make it to an ultrasound, and see our baby, again, with a heartbeat, again. And we’d get attached, again. And then something horrible would happen and it would get taken away from us. Again.
And J was sweet. He held me. He told me he understood. He told me he was scared, too. He wiped away the few tears that managed to escape me, and calmed me down, and told me he would be here with me no matter what. And we’d make it through anything. He told me how strong I was.
And then I tried to go to sleep, while he went and took a shower and got ready for bed. In the hour-plus that it took for him to do all of that and come to bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. When I lay down, my heart felt like it would pound right out of my chest. He came back shortly before 3AM, and at some point I got up and went into the living room and that’s when it hit me.
I just started sobbing. Loudly. Hysterically. I went from feeling panicked and restless to overwhelmed and upset in a matter of seconds. Thankfully, J heard me and woke up and came into the living room and climbed onto the couch and under the blanket with me and put his arms around me. And I just cried. I said I was angry, and that it wasn’t fair, and that I just wanted to have a baby, and that I was sick of the universe making everything hard for us, and I was tired of being strong, and I was tired of feeling like we didn’t deserve to be parents. He said, “I know.” And he held me until it stopped. And then he brought me to bed, and rubbed my back until I fell asleep.
We can only be strong for so long…until we aren’t anymore. Resilience isn’t a forever type of thing. It comes and goes. And it went last night, for sure. You can say you’re strong all you want, and you may actually be so, but sometimes being strong is exhausting. At some point, you have to let go.
I think it took realizing what I am actually scared and nervous and apprehensive about to get me to release all of that emotion. The truth is what I said the other day: I’m really not upset about the failed cycle. There may come a day, very soon, when I will be.
But right now…the week of Mother’s Day, the week I get the shower invitation for a friend due within weeks of when I was, the week two months shy of July 6th which is when my sweet little “Baby Bean” would have been born, I am not upset about a failed cycle. I am still grieving. (And in a way, I’m trying to grieve already for the next one, which needs to stop.) I can’t even think about what a failed cycle means for me. I can’t think about whether or not I might actually have a difficult time getting pregnant now. All I can think of is what those two lines could mean and the pain that I went through last time and how absolutely, undeniably terrified I am of losing another baby.
And I don’t know what to do with that.