I held off on writing anything over the weekend in anticipation of this post. I knew it would be the happiest or the hardest one I’ve yet to write. Recently, we decided there are so many people “in this with us” at this point, that if it works out, it would be cruel to keep it a secret for too long. Plus, the whole point of this blog is to tear down the curtain that keeps infertility struggles a secret.
Well, I wish I had better news. But, I do not.
Round two failed. And, I’m working really hard at saying “this round” failed, because as I sit here this afternoon, it feels an awful lot like I failed.
I went in for blood work yesterday, and this morning my doctor’s sweet nurse called with the results. I wish I could put into words the feeling you get when you’re sitting in a meeting and see the fertility clinic’s number pop up on your phone. Excusing myself, I ducked into the nearest empty classroom and prepared to meet my fate.
“Hey Stephanie, it’s Beverly. So, I have your lab results …(long pause)… and it’s negative. You’re not pregnant. I’m so sorry.”
What do you say to that? Thank you? Okay? Are you sure? But why not; I did everything right?
To be honest, I don’t really know what I said. I think it was some jarring combination of “okay”, “it’s fine”, and those weird hiccupy tears that hit when you try too hard to fight them back. You know the ones that sit at the back of your throat with the sole purpose of disrupting the cadence of your voice giving away that you are not, in fact, “okay” or “fine.”
There was some more information and numbers shared, I agreed I wanted to continue, and then we hung up and I just sat in that empty classroom and cried until the bell rang.
The cruelest twist of fate is that the side effects of fertility hormones (coupled with stress) present themself in your body VERY similarly to pregnancy symptoms. And, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was pregnant. So much so, I would have bet the house on it. Over the course of the last week or so I have purchased five (gender neutral) baby onesies, the most precious little booties you have ever seen, and a tiny baby stocking. (Because how cute would that be to surprise people with an extra stocking on the mantle?)
It’s a good thing I’m not a gambling woman, because I kinda like having a roof over my head. While I may be emotionally tough… physically, I am a wimp and totally wouldn’t survive in the wild. (Also, don’t ask me why if I bet my house and lose it, I go straight to the wild, Naked and Afraid style. That’s just the way my mind works.)
Turns out, 2021 just didn’t have it in the cards for me. I hope 2022 is more agreeable.
Thank you to everyone who continues to read my words week after week. And whether you believe in prayer, positive energy, or the kindness of an encouraging word or a smile, I appreciate it all. More than you’ll probably ever know.
I feel like this post lacked the eloquence of its predecessors, but that’s what happens when you tear down the curtain. It’s not always pretty.
(twelve. fourteen. twenty twenty-one)