Struggling

tw: secondary infertility, baby loss, IVF

“I am struggling”, I say. My best friend replies with a very sensible thing “Just because you have a happy outcome, doesn’t erase the battle you went through to get it.” There have been niggling thoughts, flashbacks for the past few weeks.

A miscarriage, a loss. Tiredness at the thought of going through it all again, the monthly cycle of hope and despair, the trying, the overthinking. I have had these before. I will have them again. We become adept at dealing with them, we have a pattern. Let’s go home and get some hot water bottles and a takeaway and ibuprofen and hold each other we don’t even have to tell anyone.

A ruptured ectopic when I’m at home alone. I know what’s happening so I tell Chris everything he needs to say at the hospital in case I am unconscious by then. “You don’t normally see that extent of internal bleeding and the person survive!” they say afterwards (don’t say that to a person, it lingers, it festers). I go straight through, I wipe everyone else off the trauma board, I know this is bad. And the worst thing, I haven’t seen H and I haven’t seen my mum. I’m about to go in and I haven’t written them letters, haven’t organised for flowers for the birthdays I will miss, haven’t told H everything she needs to know and who to go to when I’m not there. I haven’t said goodbye I haven’t said goodbye I haven’t said goodbye will you tell her she was my world and I’m sorry. 

One tube is gone and we wait for the internal scarring to heal and then we try again for months and months and months but nothing happens. An investigation to see if the other tube works. “We will try for two minutes, this can be painful.” I make them try for five minutes. Please don’t stop please don’t stop please don’t stop I can stand anything just give me hope. They are sorry and kind but there is no hope and I am polite and grateful and then I get out into the waiting room to Chris and I howl on the floor and I can’t stop. 

IVF. The needles, the drugs, people think this is bad but it’s not: this is the good bit because you have some control and are doing something proactive. My best friend googles all the side effects and helps me make a plan to combat them and this is friendship. People say stupid things and this is the opposite, and I don’t trust them with it again. The egg collection makes me sore, a great big needle into the ovary but then it is done and waiting waiting waiting how many eggs did they get how many fertilised how many survived to day 2 day 3 day 5 how many have the right number of chromosomes how many chances do we have.

First transfer, we tell some people. I know I’m not pregnant after a few days but the negative test is still a punch to the gut. Then I wait to lose it. Wait some more. “You can always try again” people say. Can I? Should I?

We gear up for another transfer. “Just phone the clinic when you ovulate.” I don’t ovulate that month. I didn’t know that was a thing because why would you check unless you needed to, I can’t keep doing this. My life is waiting waiting waiting and it’s exhausting.

Another transfer. We don’t tell anyone. The day is perfect, the embryo starts hatching the minute it leaves the freezer. “This baby is kicking its way out of the egg, that’s a good sign”, they say. Three days in and I don’t need a test to know I’m pregnant. We live in a giddy bubble of happiness and fear. Don’t tell anyone yet because then it will be real let’s just keep it just for us for now let’s stay in this secret world.

I start bleeding at the same time I bled with all the others. It’s a Friday, no scans until Monday, just wait for three days to see if your baby is gone. I have to tell my work so I can get time off for a scan, I’ve only just started working there. They are gentle and kind and sorry for me. I cannot find the words to tell them they don’t need to be, I know I’m still pregnant, because it sounds delusional even to my ears. But I am right. We tell the people who will be gentle with us. They cry. It is wonderful.

Everything is wrong at every appointment. Too big too small the abdomen too distended the kidneys too big the placenta in the wrong place wrong wrong wrong wrong. I have panic attacks in hospital car parks. I dread my scans. 

Induced labour because of my fear the baby won’t make it if I go over, so over, like last time. Everything has been wrong and I cannot relax until they are on the outside where I can look after them. I am allergic to the induction agent “this happens so rarely!” they say. My epidural doesn’t work “it really should have!” they say. The baby turns back to back and then gets stuck and distressed and the room fills with people and I think we will both die this is how we die, I will leave my big girl without a mum and it will be all my fault for trying to have more than I deserve and it is the most awful thing and no-one cares about how much pain I’m in because we must save the baby only I do care about the pain but I can’t communicate that because I’m in a new place where I can’t scream or speak I just float on the ceiling above the tearing white hot shredding of my body and wait to die. 

She is here and she is perfect. She has a great big haematoma on her head from the forceps and she is jaundiced and her feet turn inwards and she has a neck injury so gets a flat head and she is perfect. 

I had a 10lb baby with no problems and now I’ve had an 8lb baby and they’ve cut through my perineum with a big pair of scissors and I’ve got a bladder injury because in all the excitement no-one thought to drain my bladder and it filled to nearly two litres and that’s not very good for it and damages the nerves and I have to relearn how to wee. I despair of ever feeling normal again. In time I feel normal again. Ten months later my physio says “now that’s a pelvic floor anyone would be proud of” and my heart bursts with pride because I’m not above that sort of thing and I worked very hard and shed many tears and cursed a lot a lot a lot.

I have a very good year, despite, you know. I am happy. But the other things still hurt and I thought I’d processed them all and moved on but maybe there wasn’t any time to do that, because I had to keep on going keep on trying don’t give up you’ve got your baby now you can relax and be happy you’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted be happy and forget about those other things and also please look after this new baby and homeschool your seven year old but don’t forget to relax, you guys, there’s a pandemic on. 

The clinic call – what do you want to do with this remaining embryo? And I collapse, it sends me down a hole, remembering everything and all the horrors we’ve gone through I’ve gone through my body has gone through. But I am ok now, will be more ok in time, will do enough crying to make peace with it all and do enough talking to the people who gently carry me through my life. Let’s donate it to some other poor bastards, we say. I hope our baby kicks out of the egg to become their baby and keeps kicking keeps kicking keeps kicking keeps kicking.