Waiting…watching the clock 

There are 15,840 minutes in eleven days. I should know, I have counted every single fucken one of them.

This torturous wait has kept me holed up in my head, feeling each little twinge. Worrying over every teeny cramp. Angry. Sad. A little bit happy. No angry again. I’m not sure which one of the little fuckers is to blame – progesterone, progynova or prednisone – maybe it’s all three but they can each and every one of them, together with my hormones, bugger off and stop fucking with my head already.

A bit over 11 days ago was when our little journey of hope began. The 13th round. Lucky 13, I’m not sure how many rounds Muhhamad Ali went through in his world title fight but it’s starting to feel a bit as though I’m reliving his bout blow-by-blow. Once my intralipids are done I skip upstairs (yes literally, this is our ‘one’ it’s soooo gonna work this time happy happy joy joy) where Dr Babies is waiting for me in theatre. I lay back and slip my ankles into the stirrups and the scientist comes to tell me Hugo or Evie has indeed thawed beautifully and is waiting for his new lil home. Yesssss, lil embie, I have everything made up for you in there and even a little night light so you’re not afraid of the dark.

The catheter goes up you know where (or if you’d prefer not to, look away now) and Dr Babies guides it in using the ultrasound screen. Once he’s found the perfect hidey spot inside my uterus, he radios in for the scientist who appears from the lab holding the tube with our teeny incy lil embryo (smaller than a pinhead) inside and has already grown to a five-day-old blastocyst. She hands it over and Dr Babies carefully places him inside the catheter. Then, a bit like a pea shooter, embie is hurtled up through the catheter and comes up on the screen as the teensiest weeny white light in my baby caravan. Just like a star in the bare night sky. Oh I’m so wishing on you teeny star, wishing with all my might.

A few seconds later The scientist radios through to say the tube is empty. ‘All clear,’ she says. And we have liftoff, captain. One little embie safely onboard.

I lie back on the bed and insist on resting up for twenty minutes, even though I don’t really need to. You know, just to be sure. I’m not risking anything this time. So good. My mind’s already starting to high-five itself.

That’s the easy bit done and dusted. Yes, even the part where I have a giant cannula hanging from my arm for four hours. That ain’t nothin compared to what lies ahead.

Two weeks, or just shy of, hoping for a miracle…

My friend works out that IF it takes, this little miracle will arrive on the 13-year-old’s birthday. Oh what a double whammy if that’s not a sign more certain than a weeping Christ statue, I don’t know what is.

Softest baby blue with taupe accents for a Hugo nursery, dusky pink with soft French grey for an Evie.

Everyone is so excited. Messages flood in from our beautiful friends and family of hope and wonder, they make me tear up just a little bit. They all want this to work. We all want it to work. So so much riding on this lil’ frosty.

In two days it’ll be me and The Vet’s fifth wedding anniversary…and I couldn’t ask for a more precious teeny gift for him. The bloke who has truly kept me together like dried PVA glue these past five years. I can almost see our teeny Bub, giggling his same infectious cheeky laugh that makes me smile even when I feel like shit.

anniversary1Even the 13 y o thinks he has a brother in waiting and insists it will be the best baller, like, ever. 

The end of the road. Our time is finally here. Isn’t it? I mean it’s worked hasn’t it? Headaches, cramps, backache they’re all pregnancy symptoms too right? We have a super embryo in there, our lil Hugo, holding on for dear life digging his little ice pick into the wall on my ueterus…

Hope starts to slip from my grip. An emptiness begins to creep over me…. I’ll do two pee tests, praying like fuck for a second red line. As the liquid slips up the screen, filling the first window, it fails to eventuate into the second. And like that, my heart drops to the floor. Fuck it all to hell I can’t deal with this anymore. No. More. Pain. No. More. Loss. Please whoever higher being it is up there driving this crazy bus of disappointment, I want to get the fuck off.

My clinic says I’ll still have to do my blood tests even though I know there is sweet fuck all point to them. They don’t even call with the results.  No need. BFN. Bloody Fucken Nothing.

It would seem there was nothing lucky about 13 at all. Nothing…

Bye bye embie No. 13…we miss you already as you join the twelve other little hopefuls who just weren’t meant to be…

I don’t want to tell anyone. I’m so scared of disappointing them all. The Vet. My Angel. The boy. Our friends. Our family. So much hope. So much love. So much heartache.

After attempting to put my heart back together today, it’s time to pick myself up and get back in the saddle for the next round. Tomorrow I’ll go in for a endometrial scratching and a uterus biopsy (which clearly should be on all Spa Retreat menus) and we’ll start a natural round. No drugs this time. And I’m reminded how lucky I am. I still breathe. My boy is safe and happy. My Vet is the most beautiful human on the planet and despite the fact I sometimes wake screaming in the night that someone’s trying to kill me, he still loves the hell outta this girl.  And that’ll do me. Lov’n’ hugs from a slightly wounded Lady MamaG xox

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