Thursday, 10-21-09 (Day 36) 8dp5dt
Beta #1: negative. I really hate that word.
It doesn't fit a celebratory 100th post on a blog titled Think (+) Positive.
Even though it was almost a full week ago, the memory of that day is still so vivid and painfully clear. I remember brushing my teeth while my husband stared at the digital, waiting for that beautiful word "pregnant" to show up. I remember the look on his face and hearing his voice tell me that it doesn't matter, it's probably not right as my eyes focused instead on the "not pregnant" flashing on the tiny screen. I remember crying as he held me, whispering over and over again in my ear that we just need to wait for the beta, the test is probably wrong anyway, even though I knew it wasn't.
I remember numbly sitting in the cold, hard chair as our favorite faux hawk phlebotomist tried to joke with me as he fought with my vein. I wanted to yell at him to stop, to stop trying to poke me because I wasn't pregnant anyway, and I could no longer stand the sight of needles, I was just so tired of being poked, prodded, and stuck. I remember hating my body. My ugly, distorted, bruised and hormone filled failure of a body.
I remember texting everyone that knew of our situation, because I didn't have the heart to call them and tell them in person, or the ability to do it without crying. I remember getting the beta results back-zero-and telling my husband, only to watch the tears stream down his cheeks as the reality of our situation finally became truth to him, courtesy of a blood test.
I remember feeling like my life was over.
It just wasn't fair. It's all wrong. All of the signs along the way added up, and this was supposed to be our time. I saw a lady bug yesterday, the symbol of hope, and I knew this was it. My last posting just happened to fall at 99, leaving this post as my 100th, and it just had to be a positive one, literally. There were so many praying for us. People I've never even met in real life were pouring out their hearts to God, praying for our pumpkins, our miracles.
We put in healthy embryos. Two of them. Two beautiful, healthy little expanded blasts that were going to be our little girls. And third, not so healthy one that we just couldn't bear to leave out and try to make it to freeze, because he probably wouldn't survive. He was our little boy. He was supposed to survive in my womb better than in that darn petri dish. I was supposed to be pregnant. I am supposed to be pregnant right now. I'm supposed to be a mother, it's what my body was made for.
Then I woke up the next day, and I was still breathing.
I was very much alive. And I looked over, and saw my beautiful husband lying there next to me. And I thought about all of my friends and family and loved ones who had sent hundreds of text messages, e-mails, voicemails, phone calls, cards, gifts, and flowers, letting me know that they cried as we cried and prayed for comfort and peace for the both of us.
And I couldn't help but feel blessed, despite my empty womb.
My initial feelings of fear were brought on by the realization that this was it for us. After almost three years, two IUI's, one and a half failed IVF attempts, I would never be a mother. I would never have my own biological child, and I felt as if someone had erected a giant wall right in front of my face, and I couldn't move. I was suffocating. I had no where to go. I was being crushed.
And then, something changed. My husband and I decided that we couldn't change our circumstances, but we could change our attitudes. Worse things have happened. It wasn't over, it couldn't be; we refuse to let this be the end for us.
We refuse to give up.
We have absolutely no idea when or how, but we will try again. After a tearful conversation, God gave us peace with the mutual decision that we will allow ourselves-someday-one more 2-cycle try. If after than point we still aren't successful, then we will move on, fully accepting the fact that we tried our best and did all that we could. But until then, until we find a way to do this again, we aren't done.
And now I have something else to look forward too, to hope for, and I'm healing and thinking positive again. I'm feeling grief, but I know in my heart that God hasn't let us down. Just because He didn't give us the answer we wanted from Him, doesn't mean He doesn't love us or hear our prayers. He heard every last one of them, and He answered them just as it should be. We trust that He has something amazing in store for us, and we can't help but feel excited again for the future, and the blessings that we know He has in store for us, whatever they may be.
It's not normal, I know. It's probably strange to everyone reading this that I'm really doing alright, and I have been since less than twenty four hours after receiving the news that our perfect IVF cycle was a failure. But for me, it's impossible to look around at every thing that God's given me and feel hopeless. To feel lost. To feel like it's all over, and I have nothing left.
A dear friend of mine reminded me that in the Bible, it's documented that every single woman that prayed for a child received one. Every single one of them. It may not have been in their time, but it was in God's time, and I really do believe that if God gives you the desire to be a mother, He will indeed fulfill that desire, someway, somehow.
How could I believe all this and not be hopeful? How could I trust that God is in control and not praise Him for all He's given me, and all He'll continue to give to me in the future?
Our first full attempt at an IVF failed. It didn't work. I still have a million questions, I'm still fighting the disappointment and sadness, and sometimes I still reach down to my stomach to feel the life inside of me. When I remember suddenly that those tiny lives no longer exist, I quickly pull my hand away as the grief hits me like a thousand pounds of dead weight.
The sight of pumpkins breaks my heart.
But I know that I'll keep breathing; I have no other choice. I know that God has a plan for us bigger than we could ever dream of on our own. I know that He is holding our little ones in His hands, and I know they are praising Him right now, in a place that's a far better home than my womb and this world ever could have been for them.
And for that, this 100th post is still a positive one.