Monday 6th October to Friday 10th October 2014: That Was The Week That Wasn't

MONDAY: I thought Sunday was the worst day of my life. Turns out that Monday decided to kick Sundays arse: it was the day I flushed my own baby down the loo. Well, I don't know if I did, but the image will stay with me forever. I will always think I did - whether I did or I didn't doesn't matter I suppose. The pain and bleeding were worse - it clearly wasn't over. Calling the Clinic they wanted me to go back in immediately, or to call an ambulance and go in: why, to be left in a room on my own for 10 hours??? TUESDAY: Was slightly better - I even brushed my teeth and had a shower. Check me out, I am positively civilised. Oh, and I didn't cry! Luckily Mr P is still off work and we have managed to keep all visitors away. We watched films and ate sweets and had ice lollies. It was the best day we have had in 3 weeks. Then I got upset. I saw a tweet made by someone who was pleased that they "survived" IVF and infertility. They also were thankful that God granted their "miracle" and that proves that people who "deserve" it get their miracle in the end. The person was immediately blocked and I went on a Twitter rage! I probably didn't explain myself well, but I will say this: no one deserves this shit, no one is more worthy than anyone else, and no one survives anything - they are just fucking lucky. Our Niece fought cancer twice and passed away the month before her 4th birthday - from that day I have always realised what a crap word "Survivor" is. I don't want to be a survivor, I want to be a warrior! When it comes to God I'm a massive fan, and despite my odd bit of rage I still believe he stuck us all here and leaves us to get on with it until our time comes. I don't want to get into a religious argument, but when their are thousands of innocent people dying and suffering every single minute of the day, people should start realising that God doesn't grant miracles, he gives people strength to continue to fight the good fight. WEDNESDAY: My first visitor! It was my Mum though so that's ok, and it was only an hour. Plus it meant Mr P could go outside and get some air away from the house of misery. She only came for her lunch break, but that was enough to break my spell of solitude. Im feeling better already and even looking at holidays and feeling excited about it. THURSDAY: My second visitor, the mother in law - luckily it was quick and she saved the tears for when she was leaving. I feel guilty though. She said "I don't think you should keep putting yourself through this" and i snapped back "yeah, well it's easy to say that but it's better than the alternative." It annoys me, and I know it shouldn't, but she has two children, a grandchild and another on the way. My parents have me - that's it. FRIDAY: Mr P went back to work today. As soon as his car started and he left I burst into tears. I went for a shower and burst into tears. I think I have finally realised that all I have done this week is distract myself. I have watched enough rubbish films to last a life time: seriously, films about Thanksgiving and a pumpkin growing contest, and I don't even know what Thanksgiving is or what pumpkin tastes of. I have looked at holidays and read reviews. I spent 3 hours looking at the plot lines of films banned in the UK and the rest of the world: Did you know that Schindler's List was banned in Indonesia because it was "sympathetic to the Jewish cause." I have spent hours playing games on my Nintendo DS. I haven't thought about Bubba - until this aft noon when I had a shower and spent about an hour sobbing. My friend asked if I wanted to go out for lunch. I said no, that I didn't feel up to it. She asked if she could come and see me. I said no, I don't want to see anyone. I haven't heard from her since. I never say No. The thought of talking to someone, having to say what happened, affects my plan of coping: ignorance really is bliss. One day I am going to have to stop ignoring reality and realise that this has happened to me and that I'm not ill, I'm grieving. I just prefer to be ill right now.

Sunday 5th October 2014: The End.

****WARNING - Miscarriage mentioned in detail and may be upsetting to some people**** After the confirmation of our missed miscarriage on Friday we consoled ourselves with tears, sweets, Frankie and Bennys, KFC, and lots of films. On Sunday morning we arrived at the hospital full of anxiety. I had prepared well by painting my toe nails, shaving my legs, and making sure my soon to be exposed lady garden was nice and tidy. I had a hospital bag with useful things and a fake smile of confidence on my face. We arrived inside the building and went for a wee - the nerves were bad! Then we started the hunt for the ward. Within two minutes we were lost in the warren or corridors and I thought I had wet myself. Stopping at a nearby toilet I realised I hadn't wet myself, I was bleeding. It was red. There was a lot of it. It arrived within 5 minutes of entering the building. Putting a pad in my pants we re-commenced our hunt. Within 2 minutes blood was running down my leg. We stopped again and I found that it wasn't just blood but also large clots. I added another pad and we again continued our hunt. The tears started to flow as heavy as the blood. Fortunately a lady patient saw me, took one look at me and said "next right, one floor up, turn left." I will forever be thankful to that lady. I felt that she sadly knew exactly how I was feeling at that moment. We arrived on the ward and were told to take a seat in the waiting room - until someone realised that blood was pooling at the floor and that I probably would be better out of the way. I was helped to undress, sat on a pad, and generally really well looked after by a team of Health Care Assistants and Nurses. It was a good job because I couldn't lift my arms and could barely talk. The Doctor came in and examined me. He confirmed that I was probably having a miscarriage but there was no point in testing the material because there was nothing there at this stage of pregnancy. Thanks for that. I was placed in a private room at the end of the corridor away from the women with babies. I was given codeine and paracetamol and big nappies. Every wee had to be examined in a bed pan. I was kept nil by mouth other than sips of water. I was left in peace. The pain was bad, but I have endometriosis, I am used to pain. The bleeding was horrific, it came in waves for a few hours. The clots were bad. My baby was leaving me and my body was pushing him out. A few hours later things got easier. The pain got under control with the codeine. The bleeding slowed. The Nurse said the worst was over - I had lost a lot of blood so it was probably a complete miscarriage. We waited for the Doctor. We waited for a blood test. We waited for a scan. We waited 6 hours and then we had knock on the door - it was was the tea lady and she came bearing gifts: dinner, ice cream, fruit, orange juice and coffee. I told her I wasn't allowed anything - she checked and came back and said "no you can, they said they have removed your nil by mouth status." We ate like we have never eaten before. Then we waited. By the time the nurse shift change had happened we had a new nurse - turns out we had been forgotten. It was too late for a blood test now. It was too late for a scan. We would have to wait until after 10pm for a Doctor: that's 11 hours since we saw a Doctor when we arrived. They were considering keeping me in but I have codeine at home, I have pads at home, I have the X Factor on tape at home. Besides, according to the nurse, the miscarriage was probably over now because the bleeding had settled down and I wasn't crying in pain anymore. They sent me home with an appointment for a weeks time and a number to call if I have any problems. We arrived home 12 hours after we left feeling drained and lost without our tiny little black hole of nothing.

Friday 3rd October 2014: Its a Number's Game

We have been trying to conceive for 1737 days. I have inserted 288 pessaries into my vagina. I have had around 108 injections in my belly and at least 24 internal scans: I couldn't count the blood tests I have had or the number of tablets I have taken. I had 26 big follies on my fresh cycle. They collected 15 eggs from my ovaries. Using ICSI my husband and I became parents to 4 embabies. I have had 3 embryo transfers. 2 BFNs. 1 positive test. I have no baby. I am the 1 in 4 that suffer a lost.

64.1 Million Shades of Grey

Today I'm feeling quite political. Maybe it's all these Party Conferences that have been going off, or maybe its just my brain's method of detracting from tomorrow? There has been yet another article in the Daily Mail (for those who don't know it's a newspaper for middle class, wealthy, retired, male golfers - a.k.a. My father in law) about that famous national authority on IVF and Fertility, Kirsty Allsop...Hmm, yes, i was thinking the same. It's a bit like saying I'm a fashion and beauty icon beings as I own two frocks from Top Shop AND had my hair cut today (for the first time in two years.) Apparently, according to the DM, Miss Kirsty (as to further reaffirm how 'with it' they are by allowing an unmarried woman to have an opinion - how very forward thinking of them) women should stop irresponsibly relying on IVF, stop worrying about getting an education, not worry about their career, and just find any man with active sperm and pop a few kids out early. For anyone who knows her, or the Mail, you know this isn't the first time this has been brought up, it's just one of a long line of IVF/IF propaganda. Now, if you read the article again it's probably more likely that it's the way her comments are being presented that is wrong. I don't like her - she is a well known Tory supporter - but in her defence she is quoted as referring to the fact that often it's men who need to "grow up" and for once she doesn't place it all on the woman. I do not agree with her. BUT, I do agree that the population at large think like she is being presented as thinking. Gosh, it's all a bit double-speak, but bear with me, I'm getting to my point. The media constantly portray IVF as a "back up" for career women. They never show the 25 year old woman with ruined tubes due to endometriosis, or the 27 year old man with knackered sperm due to chemo, or the 35 year old couple who have been trying for 5 years since the day they were married. No one cares about that, it doesn't make a good political argument for the scrapping if IVF funding. They don't care that a woman is 40 and has been trying for years, being misadvised by her GP who doesn't actually understand fertility and ovulation and still refers to the "Tampax Guide to Periods" they were given at medical school. And you know what, so what if someone thought IVF WAS a good back up plan, and thinks that 40 is the new 30; that's the way the media have portrayed it for years. No one criticised Simon Cowell for being a dad for the first time in his 50s, but actress Tina Malone was tied to the stake by some sections of the media. Personally I don't think that a lot of the Infertility charities and campaigns help the general public understand the facts. All that gets mentioned is funding funding funding. Sadly, in the current economic climate there are cuts and the most vulnerable members of society are suffering, and that includes the infertile. When any anti-IVF mouthpiece talks it's always about how having children is a priviledge, how the NHS is at breaking point, how cancer treatment is more important. I don't think any infertile would disagree with the last comment, but I would argue that nearly evereything on the NHS is a lifestyle choice of some kind. Treatment for cataracts allow people to read or watch TV, which is a lifestyle choice. Hip replacements allow people to walk, which is a lifestyle choice. Treatment for addicition is a lifestyle choice...oh, but wait, addiction is often a result of mental illness - that's not a choice. Being unable to see, or walk, is isolating and can lead to mental illness and that's not a choice. Having a child, for a woman born with (or even without) a womb isn't a lifestyle choice, it's a natural part of why women are women. I'm being a bit facetious, and I certainly don't mean that women are only here to have children, because they aren't. However, no one can argue with the fact that we have a whole organ system, and brain chemicals, that are only there to procreate - it's as natural as breathing or eating, and not being able to have a child feels like you can't breath. I think it's about time we stopped focussing on funding and started focussing on what it means to not be able to have children, how it affects men and women, that age is not necessarily a factor, that physical debilitating illness goes hand-in-hand. In reality we all have one thing in common, we were all born. If our parents couldn't have children we wouldn't be here (though after reading half way though my rant, I doubt there are many people here right now) and that would be pretty crap. We should focus on the companies who make obscene amounts of money out of infertility, and that includes milking money from the NHS. We should focus on the emotional effects of having treatment, feeling the pressure of society, feeling the pressure of work. Have you read the Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood? I don't think we are far off. Women are expected to have a career, bake, find a husband, buy a house, grow organic carrots, save for a pension, get pregnant, breast feed, have cloth nappies, go back to work and do it all again. We aren't supposed to struggle to get pregnant, we aren't supposed to get upset when we can't, we are supposed to take responsibility for infertility, and then we are expected to find £21,000+ to pay for IVF. When we are having treatment we are expected to work. When it fails we are expected to work. Then we are just expected to adopt. I very much fear that Kirsty-Gate is just the start. There is an election next year and there probably won't be a coalition. There will be more cuts and who is going to complain when the cuts affect the people who "made a lifestyle choice," and those people who "left it too late." There are roughly 64.1 million people in this country. Nothing is black and white. We all have our own stories and our own circumstances and we are all on the spectrum of different shades of grey. I don't think I have achieved anything today other than to scare myself with how much I can ramble when I get stuck into a hot political potato!

Pinch, punch, it's the 1st day of a shit month

Last night I received a text: "Hey! Have you had your 8wk scan yet???x" This coming from one of my (several) pregnant friends. I decided to ignore it, but I can only ignore it for so long. Even my husband doesn't understand our baby is gone so how can I tell a friend before I "tell" him? I'm probably going to have to say something like "Next week. Anyway, how are you?" It's just sods law that this particular friend has probably only text me 3 times in 5 years to ask how I am, I just wish that this week wasn't one of those rare occasions. Today my BFF called. I was supposed to be meeting her for coffee and was planning on telling her what is happening, but because her daughter (my goddaughter) has a sickness bug we had to cancel. She called to see how I was, and my goddaughter wanted to say hello as I haven't seen them for a few weeks. My BFF then went on a long ramble "How are you? How's baby? Oooh, I'm so excited and trying not to be but I can't help it! But as long as everything's ok I can't wait! Gutted about today though, but you will have it soon, bloody kids ruin your life you know!" What was I supposed to say. My 9 years old goddaughter was on the phone too. I just laughed (that's the biggest joke of the day) and kept trying to change the subject. It was hard. I ended the call as soon as I could. And then I cried. I haven't cried much for the last few days, I think I'm getting used to the feeling of despair, but today I just let myself sink. Telling people we were pregnant was lovely, and scary, but exciting. I know so many people like to keep it a secret until their 12 week scan, but in the event of bad news I didn't want the first time we told people we were pregnant to be when we were telling them we weren't pregnant anymore. This happened to my friend and I swore I wouldn't let it happen to me. Plus, by the time you get to cycle three your friends and loved ones start to get a basic understanding of the process, its not easy to hide treatment when its been going on for a year, and you run out of excuses. There is nothing worse than people saying "You aren't drinking? OMG, you are pregnant! I thought you had a bump!" when the reality is just that you are in the second month of down reg injections. Besides, I always thought if the worst was to happen I would need my friends - it turns out I was wrong. I don't want them, I don't want anyone. I just want a baby, not just any baby, my little black hole baby. I have a moment everyday where I think "maybe things will be ok" but then that's stupid. I'm stupid. I feel stupid for being hopeful. I feel stupid for telling people we were pregnant. I feel stupid telling people I'm not pregnant. I feel stupid for even believing I could ever be pregnant. Now not only do we have to go through this crappy miscarriage, but I have to go through it over and over and over again when I tell people. I have to go through knowing they are thinking "well, she did tell everyone too early." I have to go through people sending me flowers and pot plants. I have to go through people saying things like "well, it worked once...you can do it again...loads of people have miscarriages and go on to have children...maybe you should give up now...at least you got pregnant." I don't want sympathy, I don't want comments, judegments, or pot plants. I just want to be left alone to grieve in solitude. I just want to be allowed to grieve my beautiful little black hole. However small, and however filled with nothing my little black hole is, it's still MY little black hole.

It's not like it is on the Telly!

I'm having a bit of a rage. After having had a reasonably ok day where I only swore at 3 people with kids (on the Telly, don't worry) I am now back creeping back into the pit of anger. Every time infertility is shown on fictional television it is always shown as a dramatic thing. Jane in Eastenders couldn't have children because she was shot in her uterus, Diane in Hollyoaks stole a child after her IVF failed, and do I even have to mention the most famous film about infertility: The Hand that Rocked the Cradle. The reality is a lot different, 1 in 6 couples experience difficulty conceiving - yes, couples, not women. BUT difficult in conception of a child isn't Infertility, it's where it takes more than 24 months. Can you imagine a soap running a story for that long, no, because it doesn't fit with soap time lines. I understand that, but I also expect that they show some realism in their portrayal. Last months Eastenders had Tosh (in a same sex relationship with Tina) do artificial insemination at home from a sperm donor: even medicated AI only has around 10% success rate first time. Commonly called the "turkey baster method" by people who don't know any better, and shock horror she got pregnant! Yes, she did miscarry, but it was ok, she had a vodka and went back to work the same day. Grace in Hollyoaks had been shot in one ovary and had "an infection" in the other meaning she could only get pregnant with IVF. Strangely enough she didn't have to go through months of tests, scans, sperm analysis, then waiting for the right cycle dates. No, she had a consultation and started injections the same day. They did make a brief mention of eggs having to be collected, but no signs of her struggling to cope with ovaries the size of grapefruits, no side effects from the drugs other than a few mood swings. After EC (which was barely even mentioned, including the fact that its a medical procedure) she went back to work and two days later was out with her friends on an all nighter. After my EC I could hardly leave the house and was just plain ill. Sadly she had a miscarriage a week or so later. Again, like Tina, she went to the loo, found blood, and declared she had suffered a miscarriage. In reality you have to wait at least 7 to 10 days and have an ultrasound scan, or blood tests, to confirm it. You have to suffer the physical pain that is losing a baby. I know I can't expect fictional TV or Films to accurately represent the pain of infertility or miscarriage because I don't think anyone can really accurately present it unless they have been through it, and everyone experiences it differently. However, a little bit of respect would be nice. A bit of a nod to the invasive nature of the treatment. A mention that there is a lot of anxious waiting involved. Not presenting all women having treatment as being able to carry on with normal life. Staying away from infertile women snatching babies. I'm not asking for special treatment, just a more realistic impression of something that affects so many people that there won't be anyone in this world who won't have at least one loved one affected by it.

Pressure Cooker

When I was a kid Sunday dinner would take my parents hours. There were always a million pots and pans, a pressure cooker, electric knife, veg being chopped from 9am onwards, stuffing made from scratch, Yorkshire puds made from scratch (with one spare to have with some jam for pudding!) Today, for the first time in 32 years the roles were reversed and I (I mean we) cooked my parents dinner. Sadly I hate cooking, I don't see it as pleasurable, it just makes a mess of my nice clean kitchen. In all honesty Mr P does the cooking and I clean up around him. For me GBBO stands for "Great British Bore Off" and fortunately everything we have is always the easy option: the freezer is my friend, and other than the chicken and a few carrots everything else was pretty much pre-done! Throughout this process of "cooking" my husband and I spoke more than we have all week. Most of it was nasty snapping, but it's better than silence. This afternoon, after a few more little digs we eventually talked. Proper talk. Honest, brutal, difficult, but very very welcome. Last night I honestly felt like I might run away and leave him. Today i love him and would fight to the death for him. Things may be crap but as long as we have each other I know there will be someone to dry my tears...eventually.

Volcano

I'm angry. I'm angry that a giant spider tried to attack my arm when I was trying to relax on the sofa. I'm angry that my car voice recognition doesn't understand me: though to be fair, "fuck off" probably isn't in it's pre-programmed vocabulary. I'm angry that my husband called me mardy: for those that don't know what mardy means, it is a bit like miserable, but worse. I'm angry that my fertile (pregnant-first-month) pregnant for the second time Sister In Law is "excited" for our scan next week. I'm angry my husband had told people when the scan was - I purposely didn't want anyone to know so whatever happened we could have time to process it, and that was the "joint decision" we made BEFORE Day Zero!!! I'm angry my two close friends, who are both as pregnant as I would have been if transfer #2 had worked, have their baby showers in the next two weeks. I'm angry that I briefly contemplated what I would do for my baby shower. I'm angry that my husband has been out since lunch at the pub (not wanting to waste his day off staying in with me apparently) and didn't get in until 9pm when he was clearly drunk and out of money. I'm angry that he is now here and snoring and not giving a shit how I feel, not even asking if I'm ok or texting to see how I am. Im angry that we even got a positive pregnancy test - if it had been negative I would be drunk on frozen cocktails right now instead of sober, lying on the sofa in the dark, hating the world. I'm angry I don't know how to put paragraphs in my fecking blog. I'm angry I keep getting mildly optimistic for three seconds that we will get a miracle a week today. I'm angry that I can't be more optimistic. I'm just angry.

Alone in the dark

I had an early start today and it's not over yet. At 2.30am I woke and immediately remembered what had happened. I thought I might have those few minutes of oblivious confusion, but no. For two hours my eyes stayed open and I just lay in bed saying "don't cry, don't cry, don't cry...." until I finally gave up and went downstairs to watch TV. Instead of watching trash I dug out and old journal and started to write. I say write, I mean scrawl. My good pens are all dead (oh, the irony) and there is something a bit weird about writing about completely heartbreaking misery in pink and purple sharpie. It helped. I felt empty. A bit like a Dalek - mostly just a tough impenetrable empty shell with a tiny little voice hidden away deep within saying "help". Mr P went to work, slightly late, a little hungover, but still oblivious: telling me to rest up and saying he hoped Bubba and me would have a nice day. I heard his car start and cried. I thought that my "telling my mum and dad" drama from the previous day (I don't think I blogged it - I don't need to, other than to say Im their only child, we are very close, it was beyond hard) 3 hours of tears, TV, google, tears, pleading, angry words, tears, sad words, promises. In a more rational moment I thought I had probably better see a Doctor. By some miracle the Wife of Satan was not on reception and it was a nice lady who managed to interpreted my hysterical sobbing and said "So you need to be seen today?" The GP also managed to comprehend some kind of meaning from my garbled "it's just...I don't know...I can't...I'm sorry..." so after a few "um...yes..." and that weird wincey eye thing that people do when they see a three legged dog struggling to do a dump she sent me on my merry way with a diazepam and a sick note. I didn't think the day could get worse. It did. Mr P was so depressed when he got in - turns out it was because he fell out with his work friend, he nicked his ruler or something equally not important in the grand scheme of shit. After dinner he said "Why haven't you mentioned Bubba? Why are you talking about holidays? You seem really depressed. What was up with your Dad, he looked a right miserable bastard tonight!" I always thought I was strong. Now as I sit with a packet of diazepam, Im not so sure.

Day Zero

Life changes, fast. One minute you have a head full of "ooh the garden needs weeding" and "Stupid drunk Big Tim has blocked our car in again" and the next it's "my baby has died." Tuesday nights pessary was like any other: and hour (ok, maybe an hour and a half) in bed with Cruise TV and an ice lolly. Then, going for my post-pessary wee I did my usual over-zealous wipe and scrutinisation to be confronted with pink. Tiny pink dots I checked the pad, and found a few more tiny pink dots. My rational brain whispered "it's fine, you just scratched your bits - chillax woman," but the pregnant part of my brain screamed "it's over - your baby is dead." After a melt down I managed to calm myself and called the clinic. They did the usual "it's absolutely nothing to worry about, we will call you tomorrow, just relax." I did as I was told and relaxed, and it worked. The next morning I felt loads better but they offered us a scan at 11.30 and who was I to refuse such an offer. Mr P was white as a sheet, I was cool as a cucumber. All I could think was about the statistics of people who get to keep their baby after seeing the heartbeat at 7 weeks and I couldn't wait to see my baby. In fact I felt lucky being able to see Him so early: he has a name - Bubba. The transvaginal scan was like a million others I have had: the silence, then the bad news. Normally it's about a cyst, fibroid, fluid. This time it was about a very tiny black circle. No heartbeat. No fetal pole. No yolk. No baby. At 6w6d there should be something, but there is nothing. Just a black hole that has sucked in everything around it and destroyed life. Mr P just things Bubba is being lazy and when we have our "proper" scan next week everything will be fine. But Mr P hasn't got a PHD in Dr Google. He hasn't spent the last five years obsessively reading about infertility. Thirteen years ago on September the 17th I lost a baby: I thought it was a late miscarriage at the time, but I now realise it was probably a chemical pregnancy. It doesn't mean it hurts less.