Well. I haven't been on here much.
We did a frozen embryo transfer on May 12. Everything was "perfect". Our perfect little embryo thawed perfectly, and the transfer went about as smoothly as it can go.
On the 18th, I took my first home pregnancy test and got a squinter. The faintest line appeared. I convinced myself it was early, and was in the evening, so all was fine. The next morning, I took another test, and the line was just slightly darker. I was still worried, but again, figured it was so early, we'd be fine. I proceeded to take a few more tests and each time, the line was slightly darker. It was never where I wanted it to be, but I figured maybe our Little Bit was just a late implanter and would be fine.
We had our first beta on the 21st. The results came back. Not great. Not horrible. My beta level was 35. I was in the "grey area". I was discouraged for a couple of hours, but slowly, and with some help, worked my way out of it. After all, a friend that I know who also lost her twin babies and is now 31 weeks pregnant had her beta start at 33.9. So, I wasn't counting this out yet.
We had our repeat on the 23rd. It was great! The number doubled. It was exactly 70. The doctor was "cautiously optimistic" and we were thrilled. We just KNEW we had a late implanter and all would be good.
They had me repeat the labs today. It dropped from 70 to 62. A chemical pregnancy. It's over.
Once again, I am shattered. Dusty is broken. This isn't fair.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
People say time heals all wounds. People are wrong. All the time. Time doesn’t heal the wounds of losing children. Nothing will ever heal those wounds. Maybe something will bandage those wounds. Maybe another child can provide a bandage, at the same time that child is a constant reminder there should be two more there with that child. Maybe someday I’ll be fortunate to know the answer to that.
I had a very well-intentioned woman say to me the other day that I’m young, and can have more children. I know people have no idea what to say to people in this situation, but it is better to just say they are sorry, they don’t understand, than to offer such careless advice of “have more”. I bit my tongue and simply walked away, rather than asking her which of her children she’d gladly replace since she “had more”.
Others have acted like I don’t understand their pain. The nerve of people to try to compare pain with me. It’s absolutely ridiculous. My children died. Dusty’s children died. And to know somebody actually said to me I didn’t understand her pain related to this “situation”? It really is unreal the things those of us grieving have to deal with.
Things that I don’t think should, or would, hurt, hurt so terribly. Seeing family members celebrate nieces and nephews hurts so badly. What if Dusty and I never have children to be celebrated by others? I can’t live with that pain, that longing, that resentment, that bitterness. I just can’t do it. It isn’t fair. I want my Chandler and Paisley here, I want them to be celebrated too. I think one of my biggest fears is that they will be forgotten, their little lives minimized even more. And sadly, I already see it happening.
It is amazing how quickly people move on, and forget about this pain. How quickly people look at us quizzically when they ask us how we are doing and we say, ok, rather than good. But at least some people still ask how we are doing. Others simply move on, quit checking in on us, think we’re “over it”, or “moving on”, or something, I don’t know. I know whatever it is, it still hurts. People don’t know how to act around those grieving.
It’s all part of grief. I realize that others’ worlds didn’t stop spinning when Chandler and Paisley entered and left this world, but it is hard to remember that. It hurts to realize, but people move on, forget about our children. Our children deeply impacted some, but to others, even others very close to us, they were just a “bad thing that happened to somebody else”. That is something I know I am going to struggle with the rest of my life.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy again, and sometimes, the weight of that is just too much to bear. I’m here. Trudging along, at times. Most of the time, it feels as if I’m just standing still while this world spins around me. It’s just too much to bear. Dusty and I want more than anything to hold our children, be parents to our children, and give them all the love in the world. I hope and pray we don’t have to wait until Heaven for that. I don’t know if I can.