What a difference two weeks can make. Eighteen days ago, I was filled with hope. Nervously laying back on the table with my feet in the stirrups thinking how weird Science is, but so excited that this could be the exact day our baby was conceived…via catheter. You remember the story.
This morning, I sat on that same table, bleeding and heartbroken. Today was the first appointment that Justin was unable to make. While he felt bad, I assured him that it was not a big deal…I’ve done this before. After discussing all the necessary information and future plans, my doctor began writing my prescriptions and getting me fresh charts. Still writing, he asked if I had any questions. I’m sure he was expecting my normal, “Nope! I got this down.” Perhaps a clarifying question about the next IUI or my supplement regimen. What he was not expecting when he turned back around was to see me sitting on that same table falling apart.
I don’t mean a few tears cutely rolling down my cheek. I mean ugly uncontrollable crying. This picture is embarrassing. But this, Readers, is what infertility looks like.
While his resident grabbed a box of kleenexes, the doc took me in his arms in the way that one would awkwardly hug the crying girl covered in a paper sheet whom he had just violated with a plastic wand. In all fairness, I am sure that my tears are far from the first shed on that table. I took this photo as I was getting dressed and trying to pull myself together so that I could show my husband “how it went without him.”
Moving forward, the plan is that I will try two more IUIs. He feels that three attempts is a fair chance to see if it will work. I don’t know what the plan is after that…or if there is a plan for after that. So, for now, I am just hoping there is some truth in “lucky number seven.”
Next to the miscarriage back in January, this cycle has, by far, been the hardest disappointment to face, and this week has been one of the toughest to get through. In my heart of hearts, I really thought an IUI would be the answer. And I wholeheartedly thought I would be pregnant by Mother’s Day. Let’s just say the exam table is not the strangest or most inappropriate place I have cried this week. I am drained and I am exhausted.
But, like I said in a recent post, I feel like I live my life in two-week increments. And in about fourteen days, I will find myself back on that same table, full of hope and excitement once again. And that is the roller coaster of infertility. Then, a few days after that, I’ll start to have new cravings and new symptoms that will convince me I’m pregnant, and secretly crying in the staff bathroom will seem like a thing of the past.
Maybe this is how I keep going…because no matter how hard it gets, there’s always something to look forward to in two weeks.
(four. twenty-nine. twenty-two)