I didn’t mean to disappear…

3 years since I blogged. Whoa. I hadn’t intended to stay away so long. Since my last post, we moved cross country twice. We are no longer dealing with military health providers and are seeing civilian doctors.

Most importantly, we are moving forward. It’s time. This week was my birthday. I’m done waiting. We are starting the IVF process. It could still be another 6 months before we cycle, but finally, we are making forward progress.  We’ve picked a clinic based on recommendations, but I haven’t actually met with doctors yet. One step at a time. One more step, and eventually we will get there.

I don’t know how much I will blog. I do want this journey documented, but I tend to use my private instagram account more these days. We will see.

3 years, looking back

It’s been 3 years since my ectopic. I don’t know why, but this loss resonates with me so much. I’ve had many losses over the years, but some are more painful than others- and this one tops the pain charts, emotionally.

I haven’t broken down as much as I thought I would, but tomorrow is the day…and I know it’s coming. I’ve scheduled time with friends, to at least force me to leave the house, because otherwise, I’d stay in this cave.

I’m not okay, but I can pretend really well.

I’m not okay, I don’t want to talk about it, but I want people to understand that it HURTS. It still hurts so bad.

I’m not okay. and that’s okay for today.

getting serious again

Three years ago this week, I publicly announced my pregnancy for the first(and only) time on facebook. I was already sick, and so we had to tell my stepkids so that we could choose when to go public. I thought the hard part was past. No. It wasn’t. We’re about to start the week of hell- starting with the day before my ultrasound when I had spotting, the day of, announcing that it was ectopic, having to still work during this week, daily blood draws and ultrasounds, and of course, the final topping on hell cake- the miscarriage starting on father’s day. Every year this time is brutal. For some reason, this year is worse than last. I don’t know why, but I’m just trying to deal and get through it. A lot of the time I can just cope with the losses- but then on days like today, everything is fresh and raw all over again feeling.

I’ve spent the last few months focusing on getting healthier. Eating better, working out more, better habits at home. It’s slowly paying off. I wish we could afford to wait to ttc until I get to my goals, but that could take forever- and then even longer to ttc. We’re waiting to do any further MA after that, but god, I hope like hell we don’t need it and can get pregnant on our own. We’re getting serious about trying again- no temping(can’t with the style of cooler we use, no control in temperature), but charting all the signs and starting OPK’s early on to track everything. We aren’t going to force it if we don’t feel it, but we are really trying to focus on this and the end result we want.

I’m hopeful that when this time next year rolls around, that it won’t be as miserable, that there will be some hope again…..

 

but then, this is me….who knows wtf will happen.

Funk

I went to visit family recently. It sucked.

I’m surrounded by fertiles there. I had several new nieces and nephews to meet. I found out that more are expecting again. Once again, I was left out.

I’m alone. I don’t wish infertility on any of them, but god, I wish they weren’t SO fertile, if that makes any sense. I hate that for most of them, they have gotten pregnant within 2-3 cycles of trying each time. I wish they’d have to deal with TTC for at least 6 months so they’d understand a little bit, they’d understand that it’s not just a matter of waiting.

I’m tired. Tired of waiting, tired of being alone, tired of being told I should adopt, or pray about it, or do something. It’s not their choice. They chose to have more kids than they could handle, don’t tell me how to deal with my empty uterus. I’m tired of having weeks where I don’t want to turn on the tv, read my email, go to the store- because every single one of those things gives me yet another reminder that Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are fast approaching.

Mother’s Day weekend I had my first IUI, that became an ectopic pregnancy, that I lost on Father’s Day. Last year I got a BFP on Mother’s Day, only to have that end again soon after. They aren’t happy days for me. They are days I prefer to pretend aren’t happening. DH hates them too.

I don’t know that I’m ready to start trying again yet. I don’t know that I can handle waiting another month or more to TTC. AF showed up finally a week or so ago, after almost 70 days. I guess  I have to decide soon if we will avoid, or if I’m willing to risk the heartbreak of another potential february due date.

I’m just in a funk. I don’t know how I want to proceed. I guess at some point I have to make a decision about something, because I can’t deal with another cycle like the last one since I hadn’t paid any attention.

yet another reason I hate February

Sometimes in your gut, you just know. So you pee on a test, even though you know the answer. And you see two lines at 9 DPO.

Then you start freaking out. Terror. Excitement. Hope. Wariness. Fear. Joy. Nerves galore.

So the next day you pee on another test. Barely darker. Start freaking out but remind yourself that this early on you won’t see much of a difference in test lines. You keep a secret even as a friend tells you they are expecting again after a big struggle with infertility for pregnancy #1, because if you say the words, it could all end already.

And you pee again the next day, on a good test this time. Total dud. WTF??? How does a good test let you down? But the cheapy test is darker. Breathe. You can do this.

The cycle continues, another day, another peestick, another dud, but of a different style. You rant and rave, and wish your doctor would get back to you so you can get a beta.

Finally you get a new box of peesticks. A nice set of lines on a GOOD brand test.

You breathe. You cherish the few days. You tell a few people.

 

And then, once again, you regret it. Because life fucks you over one more time. One more loss. Another baby gone. Another reason to fucking hate February.