December 4, 2010 at 11:24 pm | Posted in Heartbreak, Infertility | 11 Comments

After the process dragging out for more than two weeks, my beta levels came back at zero today.

I am officially unpregnant.

I was relieved when I got the call. Because we have our follow up consult on Wednesday afternoon, and I wanted to have a discussion about dates so that I can begin to figure out how we’ll get around the monitoring nonsense with dropoff and pickup and whether or not the whole schedule would work with my January work schedule.

And that would be impossible if there was a “well, we can’t start until you get a negative beta.”

Blah blah blah.

But in the few moments I had to myself today, I felt on the verge of tears.

I’m not pregnant.

Honestly, I am utterly emotionally stunted.

Lately I spend my days trying to ESCAPE emotion; keeping myself busy and moving and focused on the few things I can control. I dance with O, play cars with him, cajole him out of his pajamas, cook dinner, straighten the house, order Christmas presents, address cards, work, sleep, run.

I avoid hugs and kisses and intimacy with my husband.

And if I keep moving, sometimes I can outrun the grief.

And then I have moments where it hits me out of nowhere. All of it – Judy’s death, which is still too painful for me to even THINK about.

I can’t remove her cell phone number from mine. I want to call it, to hear her voice on her voicemail, maybe leave a message to tell her how much I love her and how much she touched my life. And how sorry I am I never said that before.

I did take her name off our holiday card list, because I hate the idea of causing my uncle additional pain when he sees a card addressed to he AND his wife of 41 years. I hated every second of doing that, and I long to put her name back on.

Because, you know, that’ll bring her back.

And when I DO let myself feel it?

I have no idea what I’m grieving for.

For my cousin. My grandfather. My aunt. The pieces of my childhood that they tied together, how much they made me feel loved during a period in my life where I believed I was incapable of being the sort of person other people love.

My embryos. The part of my life where my husband and I have the ability to create life together, without schedules and doctors and embryologist. Our reproductive experiences have been mostly fraught with failure, with one lucky Win.

So much loss.

I know people have been through so much worse than me. I KNOW I’m lucky to have O, really fucking lucky. And I know my experiences have made me a better person; responsible, empathetic, and focused on my friendships and family.

But in those moments, I can’t think about that.

All I see is how much I’ve lost.



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  1. I feel for you, I honestly do. There is not a lot that can be done or said. It is what it is and one day it won’t be, it will be something else. Until then, there’s not a lot you can do other than cut yourself some slack. I can attest that life rushes in to fill the voids whether we want it to or not but when it does it helps create a new normal.

    I still have my grandma’s number in my cell phone (and I’ve had 4 phones since she died in 2005) and I still can’t bear to remove her for my Outlook contacts. All these years later it brings me comfort to see her name there.

  2. You have had so much happen to you in such a short amount of time. Let yourself do whatever you need to do to cope with all that has happened, whether it is to outrun your grief for awhile or cry bucketfuls when you have a moment to yourself. And most of all, be gentle with yourself. It doesn’t matter right now if there are those who have had it worse than you (there are also those who have had it better than you, for whatever that’s worth). You have lost a lot, and there is a lot to grieve.

  3. This is one of those times when there isn’t anyone that can know how it feels to be you, or to know what to tell you will help. The solution is yours to construct, don’t feel you have to make your method of grieving fit someone else’s ideas.

    I have some people I’ve lost that I had to immediately remove traces of in order that I keep living, others I’ve not been able to let go of the simplest remembrance of their existence. I don’t know why. I’ve tried to understand what the difference is between the people, but it confounds me. I just go with what works – I hope you can find peace with what works for you.


  4. A heartbreaking followup to your previous post. Although that one was heartbreaking too, in its way.

    I can only wish you upwards from here on in.


  5. It’s ok to grieve everything you have lost. Just because you hit the lottery with O does not make all of your losses less painful. I am sorry you are having so much pain lately and hope that things get better for you soon.

  6. I’m so sorry. I don’t have any wise words but am sending lots of virtual hugs.

  7. You need to allow yourself this time to grieve – however long that takes. Because if you don’t, it’s going to eat you up inside. It’s okay to be sad. Of course, I wish you weren’t. But the only thing that can heal your wounds right now is time… and even then, it’s still going to hurt.

    Love you.

  8. Hugs. No words can fix things. You have had so much to deal with in such a short time.

  9. and that is how you should feel, feel all the stuff you need to , to get through this time.

    HUGS TO YOU my beautiful friend. Here in heart for you.

  10. My brother died 7 years ago, and I still haven’t removed him from my contacts. It doesn’t take my breath away to see it there anymore, but I still can’t bear to remove it.

    Glad the beta is now 0 – I hate the waiting for it to fall and the seemingly endless blood draws.

    (hugs) good luck on Wednesday.

  11. Just saying *hugs* and letting you know I’m here and listening.

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