It’s taken me two hours to fill in the forms for my clinic appointment next week. Two bloody hours cross checking scan dates, miscarriage dates, how many weeks I was each time and compiling it into a succinct and readable format.
A trip down memory lane I totally haven’t enjoyed.
11 pregnancies, two children. 7 losses in a row in the last 2 years 10 months.
That makes my historical odds of a live birth 0.18.
Incidentally, the clinics success rate (live births) in 2012 (most recent data available that I can find) for IVF/ICSI on women aged 38-40 is 0.15.
Husband said to me:
So we’re gonna pay £5,000 to lower our odds?
Ha ha ha. Yeah – I know. It’s f*cking mad.
How can something so essential to the nature of existence be so bloody DIFFICULT? I just don’t understand why it’s had to be such a quagmire of crap for so long.
The hardest thing for me, is that by walking through those doors next week, I’m effectively holding up my hand and saying, Help me. I can’t do this on my own.
Which is just shit. Really it is. Because I’ve always been a very, very independent, self-sufficient, capable sort of person and to do this feels like an admission of failure.
And I’ve looked through the literature and the procedures and the screening tests and everything else, and to be honest there’s so much to do, it’s looking like it’ll take a miracle for us to have a baby by the end of 2016, if at all. And certainly not in 2015, which is what I have been secretly hoping for as these January nights have slowly ticked by.
And on top of all of that, I’ve got the guilt back.
The guilt that says Why do want to do this so badly when you already have two children? Aren’t they enough?
And it makes me want to cry because of course they are enough, and they are more precious to me than anyone could ever realise. Even more so because I know how fragile and transient life can be, and I know how I’m so bloody lucky that they both even made it here in the first place. When I reach out and touch their soft skin, and feel their baby hair, they seem like walking miracles to me and it takes my breath away. To see my children and know that I can’t make another, that I can no longer do what I’ve already done… For so long I’ve imagined myself with three. The ones I’ve lost… it’s just too sad.
So all-in-all it’s been a bit of an emotional morning, dredging all those old hurts back up. And it’s left me feeling incredulous that we have spent so fucking long on this. That all that time has passed and we are still no closer.
And just to really brighten up my day, my temperature went down again this morning, after going up yesterday. I’m currently in some kind of holding pattern where my temp zips from pre-ovulatory to post-ovulatory, and back again, every 48 hours.
I can feel that boiling sensation of having to do something about all this. That familiar feeling that has allowed me to walk out of jobs, flats, relationships, even countries. It’s bubbling away inside trying to concoct a plan that will get me the fuck out of this situation for once and for all.
Anyone know where I can get a hotline to the gods? Or find a voodoo woman?
I’m ready to make a deal.