Item – Re: The Professor’s clinic not taking an HCG blood test. Well, I’ve been reading her book, and by and large she doesn’t tend to take them, as it doesn’t change the protocol in how she deals with her patients (unless there’s a suspected ectopic or similar issue going on). As for me, I’d’ve been perfectly fine with that, as long as it was discussed with me before-hand and I understood what was going on and why. In this case, chemical pregnancy, over in days, I can actually see there was no point, and when I presented at her clinic, there was no point then either, because the main thing was to make sure my blood wasn’t turning to glue. The non-discussion was in part my fault, because I was so freaked out by being pregnant at all, with that horrible doomy feeling of ‘this is going tits-up any second now’ (how I hate being right all the time) going CLANG CLANG CLANG in my head non-stop, that I sat in The Professor’s office like a bunny in the headlights and looked at her mutely and imploringly and didn’t say anything clever at all, or, indeed, anything daft at all. How was she to know what my expectations were? How was she to know I a) had any and b) am a control-freak who deals by knowing shit? Next time, I write it all down the night before. This has always been the best plan (damn that pregnancy brain, eh? Ha ha ha ha).
Item – January 4th isn’t that far away. We shall discuss luteal phases and progesterone issues and LH levels and whether we should just give the fuck up already with The Professor then.
Item – Chemical pregnancies, when you’ve had a couple already, and several other more ‘official’ miscarriages, and when you’ve been trying to have a child for five years, and when every single thing you try ends in blood and puking and disaster, tear your heart to bits in frustration and sorrow. Even if you never get a chance, or let yourself have a chance, to get attached to the idea of this embryo as a baby, a child, a teenager, an adult.
Item – Its due-date was the 25th of August 2011. My charting software told me. And now that I know, I can’t un-know, just as I can’t un-know the 16th of January 2009, the 3rd of July 2010, and the 14th of September 2010. At least I don’t know the due dates of the two Schrödingers, eh? Because that would be obsessive. Poor little Schrödingers.
Item – We saw Orpheus in the Underworld the evening we conceived this last embryo. I can’t help but think of it as Eurydice. We went on a mission to save it from death, consulting the gods of recurrent miscarriage and everything, making blood and money sacrifices, and yet, somehow, we failed, we looked behind us at the wrong moment, and Eurydice slipped back into the dark.
Item – The puking bleedathon diet of the past three days has lost me another three pounds, and I am now, at last, officially at IVF weight, also known as Not-Obese weight, also also known as the weight at which my weight should not be screwing with my pregnancies. 2010 Forced March Shrinkathon has actually succeeded (probably briefly. It’s Christmas next week). The sheer eye-watering irony of this has unhinged me completely. And chocolate still tastes foul (see?).
Item – The thing about physical pain, if it’s bad enough, is that it stops you really being aware of your emotions. I feel so much better today. I feel so much sadder. And bitter. Oh, I do feel so very, very bitter.
Item – When I was clearing away the several pee-sticks of this cycle, even the vanishing-line out-of-date ones now had visible, if pathetically faint, second lines. Huh. Thanks for that.
Item – We’re going down to see H’s family for the weekend. They don’t know I’ve just lost another of their grandkids (so careless). I don’t think we plan to tell them. It’s very close to the anniversaries of the tragic and untimely deaths of a couple of H’s relatives, and it’s a bittersweet time of year for his clan. It seems somewhat brutal to add to that. On the other hand, I will still be physically weak (and completely miserably constipated by all the codeine) and in a Bad Place mentally, and H isn’t well either, and H is also very sad, and, dear Readers, it’s going to be so hard.