There are some phone calls you just dread. Yesterday afternoon was one of them. From the second the number of our specialist’s Lab came up on the screen I felt a tsunami of fear wash over. They’d already called me at 8.30 yesterday morning to say the three possible embies we had, had dwindled to just one.
‘That’s okay, we only need one,’ The Vet said enthusiastically when I told him our hopes were being sucked down the plughole of infertility. If I had a dollar for every time someone said that…we’d be sunning our pins in Monaco on our 100-ft yacht right next to Kenny & Harry right now.
I am hopeful but my heart is telling me don’t be so stupid.
Why would the clinic be calling again? Twice in one day is not likely to be to tell us they think we have wonderfully supersonic embryos bouncing off the side of their petrie dishes, they’ve never seen anything so incredible. No it’s more likely to be a big steaming pile of shitty news.
I try to answer as cheerfully as I can and after spouting off my personal details to ensure she was delivering the blow to the correct person…it came like a left hook from Ali. And sting like a motherfucken bee it did.
‘I’m sorry but the embryo we had this morning has developed abnormally, it isn’t our practice to continue with such embryos, I’m sorry we have to cancel your cycle…you have nothing left.’
Cancel. Done. Finished. Nothing. No fucking embryo to transfer on Wednesday, nudda little potential wriggler. My empty womb has been kicked hard.
Like that our dreams are gone. I don’t know what to say, my tubes are still swollen like I’m three months full and aching like fuck from being scraped to within an inch of their lives…all for what? Shit fucking all, that’s what. ‘Thanks, uhm yep okay,’ I say stifling in my tears. She tells me a nurse will call me in the morning. I don’t need a nurse, I need a baby I want to say but it’s not her fault.
I want to scream so loud my lungs collapse. This is so far out of my control.
Now I have to deliver that multi-fucked-blow to The Vet – whose still wincing from a three-inch fucking needle being drilled into his clacker (and yes, for any blokes playing along at home, it hurt like you’d been kicked with steel-capped boots in your money-makers). I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell him, to destroy his dreams too. He’s still at work, saving lives all the while smiling heartily to his clients. ‘It didn’t work, we don’t even have one left anymore.’ I think the short silence between us is deafening but at the same time loud enough to hear both our hearts shattering. He tells me it’ll be okay and he’ll be home soon. We can go and have a few drinks, celebrate what wasn’t to be.
I have no idea where we go from here. We’re on the crash collision course of infertility with no brakes and no fucking road map to direct us.
It’s so bloody achingly numbing to know we went through all that for absolutely-shitting-nothing.
Our ninth round, the one we’d thought would work, the one that had all the trump cards up its sleeve, our lucky last, the Cadel of cycles…FAILED. It fucking failed.
I decide to wait to tell the 12 y o until when we got home late last night and I let him know too, that he won’t be having a brother or sister any time soon. His sweet little face drops. He goes to The Vet and hugs him tight. Then he comes and gives me one of our Squeezy Hugs I love that’s so tight his head might roll off. ‘I’m so sorry it didn’t work, mummy but I love you,’ and that is the reason we can’t give up. He is so damn beautiful. Well that coupled with the fact I have the Most Incredible Human Being in the World in The Vet and who wouldn’t want to procreate with him?!? Lov n’hugs from a brokenhearted Lady MamaG (and my boys) xox