Tell me it gets better…

Tell me this empty feeling goes away.

Tell me the tears, the agony and the heart break fade.

Tell me my heart will slow down enough for me to breathe properly.

Tell me I will be able to eat properly again.

Tell me I will be able to pick myself and dust myself off before tomorrow so I can go into work and I don’t lose my job for having too much time off.

Tell me people will stop telling me “if it’s meant to be it will be” and “one day you will have a baby” and “no doctor has officially told you you’re infertile and can’t have children”.

Tell me one day this huge house will be filled with the tears and laughter of a child we created out of love.

Tell me one day this pain will end and I will be happy again.

Tell me it gets better…

please tell me it gets better…

Advertisements

How can you be sad over something that never existed?

chemical-pregnancy-was-actually-a-very-early-miscarriage

I don’t know where to begin.

I haven’t posted in a long, long time, as it wasn’t giving me the same cathartic feeling as it once did.

It’s hard.

So fucking hard.

I feel trapped inside my head constantly and am struggling to release any of that stress, tension and pressure.

This week has been one of the shittiest weeks of my life.

My life had been ticking over, I guess you could say, for a number of months.

Back to work, start of new school year, lead up to wedding, hen cruise (which was a bit of a disaster in itself, and seemed to matter at the time but is pale in significance after the events of this week), moved into our dream house etc etc.

Been off anti-depressants for 8 whole weeks now.

No strong painkillers.

Exercising regularly.

Eating well.

Doing. everything. I. am. supposed. to. be. doing.

BAM

Period 1 week late.

Cue excitement (stupidly) from me and a rush to take a pregnancy test.

Faint line.

It’s okay… leave a day or two, test again. Don’t get hopes up. Mustn’t get hopes up. Will only be a few weeks pregnant at most. Don’t get excited.

Do.

not.

get.

excited.

Wednesday rolls around.

Test again.

Faint line is stronger than last time.

Must be a positive.

GOT TO BE A POSITIVE!

Excited and crying happy tears.

Tell Mr Mad.

He is his usual sceptical self.

But I know, I mean, I know, I am pregnant. I can tell. Because, you just know, don’t you?

Friday, 3am.

Wake up in the most agony I’ve been in since before my surgery, when my endo was at its worse.

Go to bathroom.

Blood everywhere.

Then I knew….

even if I had been pregnant, I definitely wasn’t anymore.

I lay on my kitchen floor (my gorgeous, so-shiny-you-can-see-your-face-in-it black kitchen floor, in my dream house, our dream house, our family home) for an hour sobbing my heart out.

How could this happen?

How could life be so cruel to me, to us?

How could Mr Mad still be asleep when my entire world is crumbling underneath me?

It’s not his fault. It’s my fault. As per usual everything is my fault.

I stress too much.

I work too much.

I exercise too much.

I ate too many chocolates the other night.

I had a gin and tonic to calm myself down after a particularly stressful day at work.

I’ve taken on too many extra things.

I’m rushing around too much.

ALL MY FAULT.

Except, is it?

Everybody keeps telling me that if it’s meant to be, it will be. I understand it’s to try to comfort me, but it really doesn’t help.

Never before have I experienced such lack of compassion in a hospital. Being stuck with visibly pregnant women whose partners are cooing over them when you’re in agony and bleeding is the single worse thing in the entire universe.

To know that one day, in about 4-6 months, every other woman in that waiting room would be leaving that hospital with her baby, meanwhile mine, which never really properly existed, is gone forever.

But it wasn’t really a baby, was it? How can it be after a couple of weeks.

Chemical pregnancy they call it, don’t they?

Never would’ve been a baby.

So why does it hurt so much?

Why do I keep replaying that conversation with the doctor over and over again?

“What number pregnancy was this?”

“Three”

“How many children do you have?”

“None.”

And I suppose I should be thankful that I’m still here. A little over 24 hours ago I was being rushed to hospital thinking I had an ectopic pregnancy and they were going to remove yet more of my precious reproductive parts.

But why won’t my body work properly?

What have I done that’s so awful to deserve this?

I have no hope left.

None.

All I see is 50 years, if I am that ‘lucky’, in a big empty house.

Endless holidays.

Tonnes of cats.

But still no children.

Never

any

children.