I know it’s Tuesday.

I read last week that Mondays seem to be a risk factor for heart attacks.

It seems odd, and yet, I get it.

Mondays hit me the hardest. Yesterday should have been 6 weeks. Should have been.

It’s self torture, but I can’t stop it.

I walk around the shops, I see the women with their bellies, I stare at them, ravenously, filled with an envy I’ve never known before.

I crane my neck to stare into prams, watch the little children toddling along beside their parents.

I can’t stop it.

Mr G said to me last night, as I was having a teary walking around the shopping centre, that I need to stop thinking about it, I need to move on.

I know it’s different for him. I get that he didn’t get to have my exact experience.

But he doesn’t understand, reminders are *everywhere*.

And I can’t stop it.

And it’s holidays.

I can’t believe I made it to this point. So many days I’ve been ready to walk, so many times I’ve been at the point of tears.

One week today since Petri left us. I’m trying to stop reminding myself every day of how far along I should have been. But I can’t help it.

I have this heavy, dull ache inside. I miss him. I miss being pregnant.

My grandma is home. They dont really know whether it was a stroke. I’m just glad she’s ok.

My dear Grandma had a stroke this morning. Found her unconscious in bed. Called the ambos, who took her to the hospital. She seems to be ok, is awake and talking, but everyone is very stressed. She’s the healthy one!

Just when I thought I’d seen the last of
Hospitals for a while.

I don’t know how much of this is my aching heart and heavy soul, and how much is real. Hell, I don’t know what’s real anymore.

But I am desperate for a change.

I went from school, to uni, to full time work.

Without a break.

I worked part time, often in two jobs, that whole time. I’m still working two jobs now.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy my job, because while often I hate the daily grind, I enjoy teaching and I believe in it.

But lately (and were talking many months here) the fire has gone.

I work my arse off, with little or no support, for little thanks.

I feel like there should be more. I was elated at the prospect of only being there for a few more months. Stupid me for getting my hopes up. It was partly complete lack of time and energy to focus on anything else, and partly hope that it wouldn’t matter, but I didn’t apply for anything else in the peak period.

So now here I am.

What I would dearly love, is to take a year, study photography, do a cycle or two in peace, and relax (not only because of it’s pregnancy inducing guarantee).

I’ve just had enough of going through the motions. Something has to change. I can feel myself slipping into a rut that threatens to carry me to 35 before I’ve even realized I’m moving.

I could take a year’s leave from my (ongoing) contract, but financially I don’t know what that would mean. Mr G’s contract at his suit job has been extended, and he is ongoing at his woop woop job. We don’t have rent at the moment, and obviously we don’t have any kids. But we do have the financial burden of trying to get pregnant.

What if I took a year, got healthy, and found the spark again?

My soul is itchy, and I want to escape.

This time is the hard time.

It is dark, secret.

Mr G is back at work. Which means I am in bed by myself. The first of two nights. Ordinarily, this doesn’t bother me, but tonight, the space is suffocating.

Petri is gone.

He is no longer attached to me, no longer within me.

How can something so tiny leave such a gaping abyss?

It is too big, too much.

I can’t process it all at once.

Before, my pain was my own. I would swallow it, contain it, bury it, hide it away.

But this.

This is Right. There.

Welling up, growing. Expanding like the baby that didn’t get a chance to.

Overflowing, refusing to be held back.

Like the baby that didn’t get a chance to.

Tomorrow I go back to work, back to my friends, back to the real world. Back to the place where I got that news. Back to the people who were eavesdropping on that phone call.

I am alone.

My HCG is back to 10. By tomorrow, I will be officially un-pregnant. Admittedly, the part of me that was still hopeful was disappointed that a miraculous eight hundred and something hadn’t appeared, but I was unsurprised.

8 days from pink line on a  pee stick to being just an infertile woman having her period. I should be 5 weeks pregnant.

Instead, I was back at the RE, seeing him turn into the man with a plan.

Given my reponse, or lack thereof, to the IVF meds, my PCOS diagnosis is official. And with it comes a plan.

Drugs.

I get to take a nice little cocktail of pills – metformin, BCP’s and my prenatal vitamins. I find that combination amusing. Over the next 3 months, before we cycle again, this should help to bump off some weight and regulate my cycles.

Enjoyably, it also means no period for 3 months. Bonus.

That will lead into a down reg cycle, with 225 units of FSH rather than 150. I’m not convinced its high enough, but I have to trust that the combo of drugs will make a difference.

I asked about clotting issues and immunity testing. His opinion of immunity testing is that its “Quackery”. He is reluctant to test for clotting issues unless I have another miscarriage.

I’m not sure how I feel about the miscarriage.

We went down the Peninsula on the weekend.

I stood on the cliff tops, being buffeted by the wind. I screamed at the world, and said goodbye to our baby.

It’s not that I haven’t cried since, but I feel more peaceful.

Maybe if I hide.

Bury my head under the covers.

Go back to sleep.

Drift into dreams where I am still pregnant.

Then we will be ok.

But every time I move.

I can feel him leaving.

The world is moving.

Rushing.

I try to grab on, but I am falling.

I want to stay, but I am lost.

I want to run, want to catch up, want to scream.

Wait for me!

But it is too late.

The absolute worst kind.

“I’m very sorry, with your levels the way they are, the continued bleeding and cramping, you have probably already miscarried. If not, you will within a week”

I haven’t yet.

This part really scares me.

I have no idea what to expect.

We wait again.

***

She was full of meaningless platitudes…

“At least you know you can get pregnant”

“It’s just one of those things”

“If it was a normal pregnancy, you might not even know about it”

“You’re young, the clock’s not ticking, you’ve got plenty of time”

“It’s worse because of the hormonal rollercoaster you’ve been on”

It’s all bullshit.

***

I’m not even going to start on being forced to sit in a waiting room with the woman directly opposite and her 6 month old baby, already showing a perfect little baby bump. Or the woman to my right, baby in pram, toddler at hand, and a belly about to pop.

Then being shunted off to a dingy corridor, lest my uncontrollable tears upset all the pregnant women.

So I’m back at the hospital. Bleeding got worse, cramps got *bad*.

It’s almost officially non viable. Beta #4 was 114. Up a whopping 3 from yesterday, and 20 from the day before.
That’s under 120% in 48 hours.

I have to go the antenatal clinic this afternoon for a kick in the guts.