I really want to punch Mother Nature in the face…

How many times can a heart be broken? Turns out a shitload!

How many times can a heart be broken? Turns out a shitload!

There’s been plenty of times in the past two years when I’ve really felt like hitting something and by something, I mean of course someone. Not anyone in particular, just the one who happens to be at fault for my infertility – which would clearly be myself. Or that nasty biatch who has cast her ugly spell on us, Mother Nature. Or possibly the Fertility Gods who keep giving us dreams and taking them away just as fast. Whoever be to blame for this bullshit heart-ripping pain, I want to smack them real hard in the face with my knuckles. Bare dust-style. I am beat. We are all beat. Today we got the delightful news that yet again, another cycle has failed. That would be our eighth if you’re counting (and yes, I bloody well am). Turns out eight isn’t such a lucky number…well not for this girl at least. Maybe it’s time I looked at my Feng Shui.

We had two lil’ embies this time and were so sure they would stick like honey to a fry pan that we’d given them names. We started talking to them at night, we were going to have the perfect pigeon pair – a boy and girl and it’d be all done in one go. Except it wouldn’t, it didn’t and it isn’t.

I didn’t get ‘that feeling’. That one where you just know. You know there’s an itty bitty peanut growing inside your belly ready to make it’s new home for nine months. Settling in, making its own self comfy, twinkling in your eye and fluttering ever so slightly with it’s teeny tiny embryo magic dust. Maybe it’s mother’s intuition, preparing your mind and your body for protection mode. Telling you it’s time to rest up and do your best to grow a little person. But still, you must wait. In infertility they call it The Two Week Wait. The single most infuriating, mind-destroying, sanity-depriving, sleepless and nerve-wracking two weeks of your life. Well, technically it’s only eleven days but boy is it eleven days of complete and utter shitfulness. If you don’t come out of it and the end at least a little bit like Sissy Spacek from Carrie, you’re doing well. Real well. Eleven days of questioning your every internal move…was that a flicker of a cramp? Could that be a twang of implantation? Could have sworn it hurts to sleep on my chest, must be a sign, surely a sign, definitely a sign…or not.

At the end of that Two Week Wait, a nurse will deliver the news you already don’t want to hear. Sorry, it didn’t work. Not this time, or the time before that, or the time before that even. Then it’s my job to ring The Vet and tell him. I would put off that call forever if it meant I didn’t have to break his heart one more time…but I can’t. It is what it is and we can’t change a single damn thing. Love n’hugs, Lady MamaGxox

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