The end

It didn’t work. I am not pregnant and it sucks. Last Friday, I was so sure I was, I allowed myself to believe. And it felt so real, so right, in a way that I didn’t before with the other IVFs. My boobs hurt, were bigger and veiny, I was nauseous, tired and there was pressure in my lower abs. I could hear the nurse give the news, planning out next week with the second beta and scheduling when the first ultrasound would be (two days after Christmas). Baby Spencer, as Miles called him, would be born in early September if we were lucky so would be three school years behind Miles. I was giddy to the point that I just almost whispered my news to the manicurist and even a mom from Mile’s preschool. And in that vein, I POASed two days before the beta, right before Miles’ nap, confident that I would see the one word on the digital test I’d been waiting 2 years for –pregnant.

Instead, once one I paid $7.50 for the test to be told that I was not pregnant. That I had spent close to $30,000, made four trips to Denver, injected myself with untold number of hormones, gulped daily vitamins, fretted about follicle sizes, number of blasts, CCS tests, agonized over lining, progesterone and estrogen levels, rearranged travel plans a zillion times – all over a period of eight months for absolutely nothing. With odds of 50%, I once again fell on the wrong side. Poor Miles. Instead of the book before nap, I threw him in the crib and walked out, ignoring his pleas.

Dave coaxed me to hold on to some hope. That I tested too early. I scoured the boards to find example of those that had the same results on a digital test 7dp5dt and went on to a BFP. The odds weren’t good. Two days later, my beta would likely be a minimum of 80. If HCG doubles every 48 hours, mine should have been 40, enough to register on a digital HPT. That I didn’t use morning urine provided some comfort.

In the end, it was good that I had the early warning. I had the blood test Sunday morning on our way down to Santa Cruz for a Holiday day out with Thomas the train. Miles had been talking about it for weeks. The call came a short two hours after the test right smack at the beginning of the train ride. I’d just joked with a pregnant lady about to pop, alongside her two-year old twins. Santa Claus was making the rounds on the train. Elves were jingling bells and carols were blaring out of the speakers as the train powered through Santa Cruz. The tone of her voice was enough. I didn’t need to hear the words. I hung up before she could tell me to stop taking the meds. I’d already ripped the estrogen patches off my abdomen.

I wish I could say I was there and present for Miles but I couldn’t stop crying. We were done. Some higher power judged up not up to having another child. I’d wasted time, money and energy for naught. Somehow I have to figure out how to make sense of it, how to move on and let things play out as they will. I need to be happy for my son, be present in my life and find my way back to the things that bring me happiness.

Another IVF is out of the question. The hormones I’ve already exposed myself to sicken me. And in reality, the only ART that ever worked for me was Clomid. Maybe the cruel joke at the end of this nightmare will be a natural pregnancy and perhaps if I would have just had the patience a year ago, it would have worked out.

At least for the day, I managed to pull myself together. The sea air will do that for you. I drank my first coffee in months and then jumped into Miles’ first minature golf game before the merry-go-round. On the way home, Dave and I put a couple ski trips on the calendar and picked up a 2001 Brunello for dinner. And today, I went for my first run in months. It feels rebellious but comforting.