Today was meant to be transfer day. Two of our last little frosties, our hopefuls, our last shot, out of the freezer, through the tube of a catheter and straight into the baby caravan, romantic as it sounds and all. But, and it seems as though there’s a shit tonne of fucking but’s these days (and not of the cute squishy baby kind either) we won’t be.

No. Sorry, your defective self has once again proven to be unripe, Lady Mama G. Not ready. Not working right. So we’ve abandoned ship, jumped overboard mid-cycle and told the Captain to take the wheel before it hits the whopper of yet another disappointment. Another failure.

The reason, besides many, is that bitchface endo has reared her rather ugly head again. Interfering with not just any chance of our cycle working but giving the ever delightful side affect of making my gut swell up to the stage of a four-month pregnancy with a tiny knife-wielding ninja chopping away at my insides…which would be super cool if there were a lil peanut (less the ninja swords) hatching inside but there isn’t. And that just makes life shitful with the only reprieve to be found in the form of hot wheatie bags and curling up in the foetal position with a stash of rocky road (coincidentally, which features high on the list of must-not-haves when it comes to endometriosis but come on, fuck me solid, I can NOT do life without chocolate. It is my drug of choice).

I’m so glad we didn’t chance our lil’ Hugo & Evie and even made sure to call the lab this morning to triple check they didn’t start to defrost our embryos for no reason leaving us with nothing. Fortunately the scientist on the phone didn’t think I was an obsessive crazy nutbag and said it was a good idea to double check because a message with the office lady could easily get mislaid, yes you’re very right…okay maybe she thought I was a little bit OCD. No chances please.

I meet with Dr Babies to shoot the shit about the record number of embryo transfers done on one patient but mostly to find a solution. I already know what he’s going to say so I suggest it. ‘Another Laproscopy?’ I ask gingerly as though ordering another glass of French Rose. I promised myself no more going under. No more. My inner self is bitch-slapping me for even coming up with such nonsense but there is sweet fuck all other choice, Dorothy. Key hole surgery for the second time in five years to cut away all the nasty seaweed like growths aggressively attaching themselves to my innards really is the only option. General anesthetic number 10 it is…and I be booked in for a couple of weeks’ time.

Really and truly, this shit is starting to take it’s toll. The disappointment. The fact I’ve spent my entire marriage like this. What if? This time it’ll work. Let’s try this. How about this. Maybe this. It’ll work. It really will. Maybe this time. It’s okay. Keep going. One actual loss and 12 other attempts that didn’t even get as far as a loss. Two surgeries. Six hundred and eighty two mother fucking needles…can’t say we haven’t thrown every goddamn thing we can at this. And still it’s a maybe. Always a maybe. Ten per cent, fifty per cent, seventy-five even. But I’ve had a baby BEFORE fuck it all to hell, it has to work. Infertility weave your magic on my almost-gone-sanity.

I did find the sweetest thing the 13 y o wrote five years ago (thanks FB reposts) the day we were married. It’s called My Hero and a week before the wedding I asked him to write a little poem he could read out about what the day, and the fact The Vet was becoming his family, really meant to him. When he came up with was quite simply precious. When he read those words of pride, of worship, of how their unconditional bond exists because of love…I couldn’t have ever comprehended how much it meant to him, this becoming a family. He literally never left The Vet’s side…insisted we place a chair for him right between the groomsmen – where it turns out, he belonged.

The following day, we met in the hotel restaurant for breakfast and the then-eight-year-old who was staying with his Nan and Pop was on a happy high. It wasn’t just me and The Vet, it was the three of us, now. From when he skipped me down the aisle to reading out the most beautiful words only a tiny mind full of love could create. You couldn’t wipe the smile off any of our faces…but when we told him it would be just the two of us going on honeymoon…the kid lost it. Tears like I’ve never seen. Highs crashing down. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coming with us, it was our day, he whimpered. ‘But I have to come, please I don’t want to leave you…I want to come too.’ Heart. Broken. I had to leave him behind in the breakfast hall, walk away blinking back my own tears and I know it only took a few minutes for him to feel better once we’d gone…but the lesson was love, not just blood, is what heals us, keeps us together, makes us family, keeps the sides from splitting.

Our family is made up of a whole lot of people, not just our relatives and not just the people still here on earth. He is lucky, I am lucky we have The Vet and five years as our little family even though it mightn’t have grown quite the way we wanted it to…we are still a family.

And shit, I wouldn’t change it for quids…

Love n’ hugs, Lady MamaG xox