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Posts Tagged ‘grief’

6dp3dt – #3

Not much to mention on the “am I?/aren’t I?” front save that my, er, front doesn’t feel as sore, nor look so porn-star impressive this morning as it has for the past few days. I’m officially entering into the “I just know this didn’t work” phase of things, and I’m delighted to report that I’m working up to a seriously pissy attitude about it already.  Go me!

Dinner last night was fun, but “Pal Joey” was a cynical, bitter story about a con-man taking advantage of three different women.  Not really my kind of story at the best of times, even though the production itself was good enough.  Poor “Joey” just couldn’t pull off the ‘star quality’ that the role demanded, and he was completely overshadowed by all three of the women who played opposite him.  Stockard Channing was  phenomenally good as the aging lover bankrolling his dreams.  I’ve never thought of her as a singer, but her version of Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered brought down the house.  Unfortunately, the production involved lots of actors smoking, so the theater was full of nasty cigarette smoke hovering at nose/throat level all night, and on top of that irritation, the man in the seat next to me smelled bad.  I’m sure it’s brought on by the PIO, because usually people-smells don’t really offend me unless someone’s really rank, but my stomach was churning all through the show, which didn’t help me to enjoy it.  

So today I’m waiting to go to work.  Trying not to collapse in a maudlin puddle of self-pity.  February 12 was my due date, and I have a feeling that for the rest of my life, this is going to be a tough day.  Way back before I knew any better, before I had any reason to know differently, I thought that once you got pregnant, that the hard times were over.  At least the really really hard times.  I thought that seeing a heartbeat meant that I was going to walk away from the shitty experience of IVF with a hard-won baby in my arms, come February.  I thought I was home free.  

And then I learned better, and for my last pregnancy, I never even calculated a due date.  It was August something.  I haven’t calculated a due date yet if this one should work, and I might not ever “fetishize” an eventual due-date in my mind the way I did this one.  There was something so concrete, so real about being able to look at today’s date on a calendar and say, “Yes!  On that exact day, I’ll be a mother,” that it felt like more than just a possibility had been taken from me when I lost proto-sprog #1; it felt like I lost a baby.   

Days like today, it still does.

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Despite assurances to the contrary, my doctor wasn’t the one who saw me at the clinic this morning.  Instead it was Dr. Bigshot.  Who was his usual assholish self.  And who couldn’t/wouldn’t answer any of my questions about results from the pathology work-up after my D&C almost 2 months ago.   And who only bothered to measure one of the follicles that he found. (7mm.)  I just feel very strongly that he couldn’t care less about me, about what I’m going through, and that he’s already given me up as a bad risk and so will take as little time/care with me as he can get away with.  Have I mentioned that I dislike this man, and I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual?

I’ve got an appointment to speak with my doctor by phone this afternoon.  So maybe I can at least get some straight talking, and some goddamned answers.

Having to deal with Dr. Bigshot was bad enough, but the really bad news is that he only found 3 or 4 follicles during the US. Granted, he doesn’t seem to be the best “wander” in the world, but since I’ve been on the strongest stim dosages possible for 5 days, if there were more follicles to be seen, I think he’d’ve glimpsed them.  I asked if they were going to cancel this cycle, and he said that they don’t cancel cycles where the patient is already on maximum meds.  

So I’m trying to steel myself for the disappointment of this being a complete bummer of a cycle.  ie: not enough good eggs retrieved, or nothing that survives fertilization or culturing in vitro, or nothing that makes it to implantation.

Feeling very very hopeless and alone today.  The boy cares that I am upset, of course, but he really doesn’t understand.  He already has children – and a life he loves, doing what he loves, in the place that he loves.  I’m lucky to have him in my life, I adore him.  But the difference between us is that I’ve gambled everything in my professional and personal life in order to come to this horrid city, to work a job I never wanted, in order to try to have a family with him, and it’s just not happening for me.  Too bad, I lose.  And it feels like the ongoing disappointment is destroying the best part of me.  There are days when the weight of all of this fucking useless grief and misery just seems unbearable, and I look around me and wonder how many other people are carrying this sort of despair around.  I’m not sure I can do it.  I don’t think I’m strong enough.  

It’s my birthday this week, I’m turning 39.  6 months ago, on a lower dose of stims, I was able to produce 12 eggs pretty handily.  More than half fertilized, and four made it to implantation.  One pregnancy, one miscarriage, and one D&C later, my body can only produce 4 eggs.  At this rate, I might get one embryo to transfer, but it’s pretty crappy chances, since only one of the four transfered last time made it to a positive beta test.  

I need to start thinking in terms of donor eggs, and all of the advantages therein.  I could choose a donor with curly hair!  I could choose a donor in her early twenties so that we could make lots & lots of embryos to freeze in case the next time doesn’t work!  Maybe we could find a donor who is prettier than I am and smarter too!  All the genetic advantages for my sprog, and damn the cost!  I really wanted to make my own baby, though.  I wished to be able to see myself and my parents and grandparents and my brother and cousins in my child, selfish though I know that wish to be.  I wanted to pass on some of my physical and genetic self as well as whatever of my beliefs and ways of dealing with the world that a child of mine is going to absorb.  And it’s not the end of the world that it looks like that simply cannot happen for me, but I think I need a little bit of time to mourn this loss, on top of so many others.  

Crappy day, and now I get to go in to work until 8.  

Goddamnit, I miss my unadulterated DHEA high.  I could use a boost of artificial happiness right now.

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Still spotting, though now it’s accompanied by some pretty regular cramping. Looks like this is it, so I was able to cancel my D&C appointment for mid-week. I did take the day off work, but so far I could probably have sat my butt in the chair & answered questions. Maybe not, though. God, I just want this to be done. Hurry up, body. You’ve figured it out – finally – now get a move on.

I still had to go in this morning for HCG tests, and when my doctor had a look at me, he ordered some tests to measure infection, as well. Not feeling so great = not looking so hot, I guess. Then, as I was congratulating myself for having gotten through another incredibly painful reminder of what I didn’t have to look forward to, he chased me down the street to ask if I had anyone to talk to, and would I like the names of any, you know, people to talk to.

And here I thought I was just sad. Turns out I’m crazy, too.

Maybe next week, if the dropping hormones don’t do enough for the sadness. Or the craziness.

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Today I got up when boy left to take his youngest daughter to look at colleges. An early morning for a day off work, but since I got a full night’s sleep for a change, I actually felt ready to get up.

And I took a nice long walk to Staples to buy paper and printer ink. Decided that part of my problem is that I’m not getting anywhere on the book, and that maybe to have a hard-copy would help me in this final edit/cut/add process. Then I came home and decided that the only thing that I could possibly eat for lunch was gazpacho. So I got going on the print job, folded about 30 paper cranes, and then headed off to the grocery store & greenmarket. I navigated the baby-gauntlet that is this neighborhood at midday. I walked right on past the 4 baby-gear stores that lie between here and the food I needed.

And I did all this with no tears. Lots of hard thinking, but no tears.

And then, while I was slicing up vegetables and blending as if my life depended on it, the eldest daughter walked in. The one who was so terribly upset when her father invited her to our wedding. The one I haven’t seen since. I had sat down and composed any number of letters to her, trying to explain how sorry I was that she felt so hurt and threatened by me. Trying to explain that I truly don’t want to take anything away from her relationship with her dad. But I couldn’t make the words express what I truly meant. It felt condescending in the extreme, trying to tell an obviously beloved daughter that her dad loves her. So I didn’t. And then we got this bad news and I haven’t been in a mindset to care much about anything else. The boy passed on her condolences to me, for I still hadn’t seen her, and while I refrained (for a wonder) from snarking anything like, “well, at least now she won’t have to worry about us getting married for a while,” my heart wasn’t really in accepting those condolences. After all, she’d never congratulated me – or him – so how sincere could condolences in these circumstances be?

And then she took the wind out of my sails. She came into the kitchen and looked me in the eye asked me how I was, knowing that the answer couldn’t be good. And then she told me how truly sorry she was. How even though this is all hard for her – and will be for her sisters, too, once they find out – she sincerely wants me to have a baby and be happy. And to keep making her dad happy. And that babies are always a good thing. And that she always wanted another sibling. And that it’ll happen, and when it does, she’ll be happy for us, and happy for herself, too, because she loves babies.

And now I can’t stop crying.

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