Nope. Nothing good to report. Negative HPT. Wish I could just have the damned beta test tomorrow to get it done with, because, yes, I’ll still test each morning, and I’ll keep stabbing myself with the needles of pain each night, and I’ll ingest the fucking prednisone (which prescription I’ll need to renew on Monday so I’ll have enough to safely wean myself off the shit this time.) *sigh* Now I’m waiting for my period to show up, because today’s just not been fun enough, yet.
Ice storm when we woke up, so we headed home a bit earlier than we might have otherwise, which was a relief to me. I was getting a bit weary of trying to be sunshine-y. I can’t tell you all what a relief it is to be back online – and thank you for your comments. It helps knowing that there are people out there who know – from experience in most cases – what I’m going through, and who still manage to say something kind even in the midst of their own shitty days. Thank you.
Let’s see…sunshine…on the happy side of things, the youngest step-daughter’s party doesn’t seem to have caused any irreparable damage to house or house-parts. Which is something of a relief. We had some drama on Friday night when a partygoer accidentally hit the “panic button” on the alarm system & the cops called the boy’s cellphone to find out what was up. Long-distance hijinks ensued at midnight trying to get other family members over to see what was really happening. Lots of fun. Of course, it does look like the party made it all the way downstairs into the master-bath, which is where my meds are laid out on the counter. Wonder what she and her friends made of the gigantic sharps container on the counter? Can’t bring myself to care too much, somehow.
See how I managed to bring it back to me and my grief? I’m good at that. Ah well. My blog, my whingeing.
I spent the trip back to Brooklyn trying to figure out what comes next. Trying to second-guess what my doctor’s going to say. Wondering if he’s going to recommend that we give up altogether & move straight to take-out, or if he’ll think that donor eggs might have a better chance of surviving the womb of death than my own crappy eggs. Tried to talk to the boy about the whole thing yesterday, but he’s spooky about saying such things out loud, plus he’s still in denial-land. Hell, he still thinks we’re going to get lucky inbetween IVFs one of these times. Silly boy. Anyway, I finally got him to tell me what he’s been thinking about a few things – essentially, he thinks that using donor eggs would be “unfair” to me. You know, related to him genetically, but not to me. Um, yeah. I gently explained that I could give a rat’s ass at this point about passing on my immortal Cyrano-esque nose or duck feet. Human baby is what I’m after here, that turns into a human kid and eventually (and in good time) a human adult. And if it has a cute little space between its front teeth just like him, hey! Bonus!
I’m worried that this failure is going to indicate that using a donor egg isn’t even a good option for us. He’s too old (54) to qualify for a lot of overseas adoption agencies. Plus, one of his friends adopted a pair of Russian siblings who have had unbelievable problems with FAS & now an autism diagnosis, and that’s spooked us both. As unsuited as my body apparently is for reproduction, I can’t help but feel that I’d take better care of developing sprog than some young thing who knows she’s not ready to be a mother (even though I suppose someone responsible enough to put an infant up for adoption is probably plenty responsible enough not to be drinking during the pregnancy). But the thought of adopting and having there be any custody issues ever terrifies me. The thought of adopting and having a child with some condition that could have been prevented by proper prenatal care just horrifies me.
And, of course, the thought of never having a child scares me to the edge of bloody screaming death.
This was a tough weekend. His family is very close, and very inclusive – they’ve been nothing but sweet to me, and welcoming. But in a way, it was harder being there in the midst of their family circle, feeling like an outsider both because I haven’t been a member of their family forever, but also because they’ve all got their family around them. I’m not saying it very well, but it made me feel so vulnerable, like a barnacle clinging to the hull of their boat. Part of them, but not really. My husband is 16 years older than I am. Not a huge difference in some ways and enormous in others. I will admit that the thought of living the last 20 years of my life alone, with no family at all is a scary one to me, and at holidays like this, that are all about family traditions and the passing-down of family things, it’s even scarier.
Anyway, a rant of a post, but that’s probably where I’ll be for the next while. Pondering, waiting for our follow up consultation, waiting to see what happens next.
And lucky you, since I tend to write while thinking, you’ll be the first to know more than you ever wanted to about the inner workings of sprogblogger’s brain.
Which should make a nice change from knowing about the inner workings of her womb of death.
Time to make soup.
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