The week I heard my biggest fear

A week which started with such hope and excitement quickly came to an unexpected, sudden and heartbreaking end.

Forewarning of triggers: there are talks of suicidal thoughts, self-harm, infertility, grief, some swear words, and addiction issues. Do not worry I am okay, but if you do not feel you could read this, please look after yourself and don’t read any further. 

This is a big one today, in all ways, if you make it to the end you win a prize of a hot beverage of your choice if/when we meet in real life. You deserve it, it’s a heavy read. In the meantime, put on a brew, sit back, relax, and have a glimpse into what I am referring to as possibly the worst week of my life. Best read in the application as this whopper is too long for email.

dcccccccccccccccccccccc (the message from my in-law’s cat, who walked across the keyboard, my husband said I should keep his message).

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Sunday night I had prepped the perfect outfit, a mix of gifts from loved ones alive and passed to bring all the luck from this world and the other side. I needed my nearest and dearest with me, as they could not be there in person, I brought their energy with me with every piece chosen.

• A dress my late Nana bought me when she was well enough to rummage for bargains and give me the best fashion advice (aka Glam-ma).

• The gold ring studded with small diamonds my auntie gave me when my beloved grandma passed.

• A turquoise bracelet that has travelled far and wide with me from another auntie who gives out such positive energy, bought for me before the trip of my life to Australia.

• A necklace my husband grinning from ear to ear surprised me with my first trip to Spain. It was such a happy moment when his mum and sister gave me it on the porch of his house with an air of excitement.

• Boots my mother-in-law bought me. Her yearly Three Kings present equal to her two children felt overgenerous at first, but now I realise it is her incredible ability to love those who are not blood the same as her own.

• Tucked into the folder of all our paperwork, the charm my husband bought in Naples this summer, an owl (my Australian friends assured me was a good omen) with little red peppers, thought to bring luck and fertility.

As I donned my outfit early Monday morning, I felt like I could not be bringing much more positive energy with me as we embarked on the journey to our first embryo transfer. 

Cheerfully I went to my acupuncture session, taking the beautiful walk I had done many times before at this stage, all with one aim in mind. I had read that acupuncture helped with IVF success, and I wanted to try it all. My acupuncturist fussed around me as she prepared me for T day, focusing on my lower abdomen and lumbar. It was the first time slot of the morning, a tad early for me, but the nerves were giving me a buzz, and we chatted away like birds chirping to each other at sunrise.

My stomach was painted an array of greens, yellows and purples from all the treatments I had been having. Between my pelvic floor physio dry needling, injections from IVF and the acupuncture needles, I was like a pin cushion. I am surprised I did not deflate with so many holes in me. I was bloated and sore, but I felt ready. We were coming to a crescendo, I had been dreaming of this moment for a long time, and I had been preparing in so many ways. The conversation ebbed and flowed as usual, touching all different topics, but we both knew why I was there. This knowledge hung in the air but was never touched. 

As all our choice is ripped away from us during infertility and its treatment, my partner and I find ourselves clinging on to ‘signs’. Quick look at the time 11.11, soak in all the good luck! I think we are on the right track! Hey, check out the dial, the car is about to reach 222222 km! Maybe it means we're going to have twins? We look at each other with a smirk of this could be it. Transfer day had fallen on the Gemini full moon, could it be the twins I had envisaged having?

The car’s clock showing 222222 km.

I started telling my acupuncturist about one of these signs, from some cards in an art gallery down the road from where my sessions were held. We often chatted about this gallery. The journey takes me around 1 hour and 15 minutes to get to my acupuncture sessions so I would take advantage of my time in the city. I would spend my spare time going around this newly (to me) found gallery before I had to go pick up my husband from work, it had become a special routine I would discuss with her each week. 

The day before my extraction my husband had accompanied me to this art gallery for the first time. He had noticed the cards sitting on the table and had a nosy. We read the instructions, ask a question to the cards and select a card in whatever random way you please. We spread the pack out on the wooden table, moving them about with our hands. My husband pulled his card without asking a question, although we both knew what we wanted the answer to. I was keen to ask clearly, so we shuffled the cards, careful to ensure they were all mixed. I even had my eyes closed. When I opened my eyes, I could not believe what I was looking at... We had pulled the same card!

‘But check out what the card was and what it said.’ I exclaimed to the acupuncturist. It was too weird for it not to be a sign!

‘Look at the image!’ I excitedly showed her the photo on my phone. I had already shared it with a few friends, and we all agreed it looked like a uterus with one egg on one side and three on the other. I have a very low egg count. The scan the week before showed two follicles on my right ovary and four on my left. I did not know taking that photo the next day I would get three eggs from my left ovary during collection. My right, although it had two follicles on the scan had no eggs, it is too damaged by the endometriosis growing there.

For those who do not know much about IVF, that is few. Someone my age should be getting between 10-15 eggs. With it being a numbers game, the more eggs the better, as they do not all make it, as I was about to learn first-hand.

With my friends, we mused about the two circles at the bottom with the arrows going up. The day after this gallery trip, we would find out that the three eggs collected had successfully made two embryos… We were sure it meant they would make it to transfer. 

’But what is weirder is the message on the back.’ I show her the next picture on my phone.

I read the English as she read out loud the Spanish.

The message on the back of the card in Spanish and English.

Success.

No fault. 

Perseverance furthers. 

It furthers one to have somewhere to go.

‘How curious!’ She says, smiling her usual warm smile that reaches her eyes. She looks up at me with her glasses in-hand. She did not say much, but we both grinned at each other with hope vibrating in the air. We had both put a lot of work into this. I had been seeing her every week up to twice a week for three months, a routine that kept me sane during a difficult period. Our first cycle had been cancelled, the doctors had messed up the timings of my medicines, and it was our first blow. It caused a month of heavy bleeding and pain. I do not know how I would have gotten through that time without my Friday routine. That pelvic floor physio who is softly spoken, inducing a sense of calm, and always so positive.

I could feel my acupuncturist was as invested as I was, she had even offered a Sunday slot if the transfer was too early. She was in it with me.

IT SAYS SUCCESS I had in my head as we looked at each other. This has to be it, the numbers are against me but the universe has got my back. 

As I gathered my things from outside the room, I had placed them in a pile on a stool, a stool put there for this very purpose. I wobbled whilst putting my shoes on, and hopping out of the way to let my acupuncturist past.

I have to do my suppository before I leave. I must not forget, I said to myself. It had to be done at 10 o’clock on the dot.

I declared, ‘I’m just going to go to the bathroom’.

I got my little pill pack out after a tiny anxious moment of Fuck! They are in here aren’t they! I did paaaacc… Oh, here they are. I popped the two wee capsules up the… Well, you do not need to know where. I washed my hands, and then just as I was about to leave, I pulled my phone out of my bag to see if my husband had been in touch. My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach, and two missed calls from a local number lingered ominously on my screen. That always meant the hospital. They had called during my session around 40 minutes ago. Hopefully, my bad feelings are wrong.

I ran out of the toilet with a deep feeling of fear. I grabbed my scarf that I had left on the bench. Not able to look up as I did so. My acupuncturist, still filled with the hope I had had only moments before, had a big smile on her face. She stood waiting to give me a lovely goodbye, to send me off on my big travels of transfer. ‘Keep in touch!’ she said after giving me my first hug, we had made it to that level! It was such a pity I was only half there for it, there in body, but my mind drawn to those missed calls. I said nothing about them. I could not deal with breaking that smile that I so often have to do with my health news and infertility. I have become the bearer of bad news. ‘Good luck!’ she says, but I already knew I had no luck and something was up.

As soon as I manoeuvred the freshly mopped floor in the building's courtyard, my mind was on getting out and returning that call. As the huge traditional wooden door clicked shut behind me, I had already pressed call. I was shaking, adrenaline cursing through my veins, preparing me for what was to come.

’Hello, I have a missed call from this number, it’s Sheila.’

‘Hello, you haven’t spoken to your husband?’ I knew that was a bad sign.

‘No, I haven’t seen.’ Even in this crucial moment, my Spanish grammatical error echoed in my head. You missed putting the object, and did you say yet? You missed the object. You missed the object… My mind echoed to fill the millisecond of a pause. 

’The embryos are blocked.’

I stop dead in the street, the world blurring around me. ‘What does blocked mean?’

‘Your embryos have stopped growing.’

‘Ok.’

’They are not viable for transfer.’

‘Ok.’

‘They wouldn’t survive if we did a transfer, and we don’t want to do that’.

’Ok.’ I was blocked, just like my poor embryos. I could understand the words, despite it not being my mother tongue, but I could not comprehend what she had said. I could not say anything but ok.

’Ok.’

I do not remember how the conversation ended, I just know I just said ok. The buildings around me that were at first blurred, started to crumble, the tears came gushing, and the emotions flowing. I started walking quickly down the stepped cobbled street, cobbled with individual black and white stones beautifully arranged in patterns. Past the cute little traditional shops I so often ambled by, peering in their open doors to see whatever work was going on, but today I did not see them. I had to get to my husband. He was not at the end of the road where he sometimes waits for me, shaking I pressed call.

‘Where are you?’ I asked through sobs.

‘I’m in the car. I wanted to tell you here when you got back. I am so sorry, Sheila’. His hollow voice replied. 

’Come and get me.’ I cried. 

’I have to work, I will drive, we have to go now.’ Although I could not process at the time, as the transfer was cancelled it meant he had no sick note, so had no reason not to be in work. His boss needed him back.

Through the sludge in my brain, I did the maths, with the one-way system walking was quicker. ‘No, please walk and meet me halfway.’

Again, I do not remember the end of the call I just started dashing, tears streaming. I have no idea if I passed anyone on the orange tree-lined street. I usually stop and appreciate a particular spot where these creeping flowers bob happily back-lit by the autumn sun. But today I did not see anything, it was like in a video game where as I walked all the details of the street were falling away.

As I got closer to the bridge I started searching the faces for my husband's among the small crowds of people ambling between the cafes, bars and restaurants. It is a very touristy area, so finding my Spanish bearded face husband was going to be easier among the foreign faces. I was distraught. I needed him. 

I think a part of me feared crossing that bridge alone, maybe I would not have the strength to cross it, maybe I would throw myself over into the water below. Even in that fuzzy state, I could feel that side of my brain calculating if the water was deep enough/bridge high enough or if I would just damage myself and live physically and emotionally crippled. I used to stop on the bridge looking for herons, a family sign of hope and my Nana being near. That morning I had not seen her, I should have known.

As much as I had tried to keep my mind on the final dream, focusing my thoughts on the outcome I wanted, it was hard to keep the haunting realities from creeping in. The stats were against me, what would I do if they told me the transfer did not work or my little embryo's heart stopped beating? What would I do to ease such pain? I had imagined trashing the room, pushing all the equipment over. I had seen the crumbling, unable to stop the hysteria. I had imagined how inconsolable I would be and had even imagined running out of the hospital and jumping over the car bridge nearby. The idea of having to bear such pain even needed relief in my thoughts, how would I face this in reality?

The traffic lights were red, I had to stop moving forward and I feared I would collapse, as I sobbed loud painful tears. Hot fat teardrops pour down my face. 

As I crossed I was looking at the bridge, I wanted to see him before I stepped foot on it, I knew I needed him before then. There I saw his hood up, that is him, tell me that is him. As he turned the corner I knew it was, I ran toward him and he embraced me as I howled the most primal sounds into his jacket. I clung to him dearly, feeling that if I let go I would lose myself to the grief, like I would crumble to the floor and never be found again. I cried like the women you see on TV who have tragically lost a child, the sounds from a place deep within their soul, I had lost a child. My child. I had lost the dreams, their face I had held in my mind for so long, I had lost looking into them and seeing myself and my ancestors staring back. I had lost our two embryos, my love and my genetics carefully intertwined in a dance of potential life. I had lost hope. 

I pulled my face away from my husband's chest, his jacket soaked on both sides from my salty tears. He at some point guided me back to the car, my memory blocking this part, too painful to recall. As we got into the car I looked at his face, it was drawn and white, it had taken its toll on my usual practical and positive husband who hardly showed the damage it was having on us. Today it did. 

He weakly said ‘I am so glad they called you, I don’t think I could have told you.´

As a wave crushed me again, I leaned over to him and wept hard in his arms, our car providing a safe space where I somehow let myself release more emotions than I had on the street.

’I can’t believe it’s over. I’m so sorry.’ I gasped. I really could not believe it, how could it be, we had gotten so close. How could we have so much hope Sunday for it to be completely over the next day?

‘It’s not your fault.’ He said, as we sat in the car park next to the museum where we had pulled that card, less than a week ago. I could hear the card’s words echoing in my head No hay culpa. No fault. No hay culpa. No fault. But my mind screamed back ‘But it is, it is my fault, it’s my poor egg count. It’s my damaged eggs. It is me!’. 

’I’m so sorry I have brought so much sorrow into your life’. Our story does not start with infertility, we did not bounce our way, skipping gaily into trying for a baby. It had been a grueling couple of years where at my sickest my poor then-boyfriend, now husband, carried me to the bathroom as I could not walk. He drove me to A&E at all hours of the day and night screaming in agonising pain. Vomiting every bit of food I tried to eat, peeing what felt like blades, collapsing whenever I needed a bowel movement, incredibly dark moods where I would try and strangle myself with my dressing gown cord, addiction issues as the only relief I got from my agony was a 10 mg of diazepam that would knock me out (the most addictive thing I have ever tried) and a relentless search of what the hell was wrong with me.

‘I love you, Sheila, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.’ Seriously, marry the man who says this to you after such a traumatic time, I had to, I did, and yes I asked him. I am no fool.

He drove me home, I had not processed he needed to work. As he stopped outside our house I could not understand why he had not parked. 

’What are you doing?’

‘Sheila, I need to work.’ He tiredly said, clearly still in shock. He had had to drive a distraught wife howling for over an hour to then deposit her on our much-beloved house’s doorstep for her to grieve alone. I stepped out of the car in a daze, he opened the doors in front of me.

I headed straight to the living room, lay on the sofa and I bawled. I thought my heart would tear in two, the pain was so incredibly physical. In tiny respites from the grief, I gasped for air, hoping the waves would stop. They did not, they came crashing over and over and over and over again for days. I felt like I was drowning, they were pinning me down and were preventing me from getting up. 

It is over, it is over, how can it be over, I don’t want it to be over, please don’t let it be over, no, please, please, please. I begged, cried, screamed and shouted to no one. 

That night I dreamed of telling my auntie and my sister I was not able to have my own children, and that our IVF journey had come to an abrupt stop. I cried in my dream, waking myself up. I went to the toilet and on return I woke up enough to realise that the nightmare was my reality, I was living in my nightmare. I collapsed on the floor, my worst nightmare I had lingering in the corner of my mind, rattling around for years had been brought to reality. 

I howled ‘It’s not a dream, it’s reality, I can’t have my own kids.’ With the physical pain of such emotion leaving my body I fell to the floor and it had me writhing in agony. My husband dragged me onto the bed, cradling me in his arms. ‘It’s not a dream, it’s reality, I can’t have my own kids.’ I repeated over and over again. 

The days passed in a blur. Day one and two I ordered a pizza and a Kinder Bueno (day two remembering to order one for my poor husband, the chocolate bar, not the pizza, he hates cheese). It seems I am a sad girl who eats pizza. Drinking a strong Irish tea with milk AND sugar, because I am going to drink ALL THE CAFFEINE (something I had stopped due to the migraines and the fact that the internet says it will help with IVF success). It is also what is required for someone who has experienced shock, if it is not in the medical books it should be added. I was somehow managing to look after myself through the heart-wrenching sorrow. 

Day three and four I found myself eating an entire box of chocolate cereal. I had been taking supplements, exercising, and eating healthily including things I did not want all on a gust of if I have one chance I am going to give it my bloody all. I had even arranged to stop working, with no pay because I did not want stress getting in the way. I had one aim and I was not going to fall at the last hurdle. That card rang to my mind Perseverance furthers and I had been persevering. 

Day four was the hardest in some ways, I woke up and said what is the point. I think once the emotions have flowed so viciously out, it leaves a numbness that is sometimes worse than the pain. I did not get up that day, I stayed in bed. Somewhere around midday I realised I was hungry and needed to hydrate, I grabbed my phone, cereal and a water bottle. That fucking phone, a source of pain and torture, that local number hovering on my screen as two missed calls. Fuck, what have they got to say? I rang once, twice, three times with no reply. They had called around 10 and it was now past midday.

I messaged my husband in a scramble to find out what they wanted, usually, they tried us both Has the hospital called you? I’ve only just looked at my phone. He was working and didn’t reply for another half hour.

Eventually, they picked up and the routine started again. 

’Hello, my name is Sheila, I have two missed calls from this number.’

‘Hello, I’m calling from Assisted Reproduction. We are calling to tell you we won’t continue with any cycles and you do not need to come to your appointment tomorrow.' 

I silently sobbed, even though I knew this, there was a grain of hope somewhere around, I was only 98% sure it was over but the 2% had been holding my being together. 

’Do you understand?’

‘Si.’ I replied sobbing. Of course, I understand but give a girl a chance to process such life-changing information given over a phone call. I was laying in bed, unable to get up after 4 days of bitter grieving and unable to get dressed never mind leaving the house. I was alone and I stank, crying is a very full-body experience and I had been sweating from the sheer effort of what my body was going through. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, making no effort to hide what her words had done to my world. 

She kept repeating ‘Ánimo’ 'between my sobs. A word I find hard to translate, but in this context means cheer up. Fuck you and your ánimo, I do not want ánimo I want my baby but you have just killed it with a simple sentence on the phone.

She said eventually ‘You can come in if you want, to get feedback in person.’ Of course, I do you, stupid woman, I have spent hours upon hours in your clinic, I first had contact with that clinic over a year and a half ago. You can at least explain to me what went so bloody wrong?! Two years ago I was told by my endometriosis surgeon I had an 85% chance of falling pregnant, two years later I am on a phone call with a woman I have never met, telling me I now have a 0% chance. 

Eventually, I hung up. I could not take hearing her say that word again. 

Half an hour later my husband replied, No, they didn’t call me. Call.

I replied, I did. They say we can’t have more cycles and we don’t need to go tomorrow. 

Ok. Now my husband was trapped in the ok trap, we were both annoyed I could feel it in those two letters. 

Unless we want an explanation. What do you want to do?

Don’t know.

Me neither. 

We talk later. He’s Spanish, they use present tense much more, and I didn’t even notice the error I was so overwhelmed. 

Ok. There were no words.

A screen shot of the Whatsapp conversation.

He rang at 2 pm asking if I wanted to go, he had to tell his boss there and then. I did not know, I did not know if I could dress myself and drag my weakened body to face a potentially traumatic appointment. But another part of me had so many questions, fundamentally why and is there a next?

On his way home he went to the shop asking if he could pick anything up, I said yes ALL THE CHOCOLATE! I think falling off the sugar bandwagon is nothing as I had been getting really bad drug desires (fucking diazepam niggling at my brain, offering that sweet dozy relief I so desperately wanted) and I wanted to just chug the box of vermouth or bottle of wine we have in the kitchen. I have been trying to be sober since I got sick, at first it was easy as it was life or death, but then it was in a desperate attempt to clutch onto the possibility of getting pregnant. It turns out that breaking addictive thought patterns is hard.

I have resisted and I am proud of myself, wow am I really that strong?! Have I come THIS far in my journey, I cannot actually believe this would be possible for me.

To my ALL THE CHOCOLATE message he simply replied ‘This?’ with this photo:

So we went in for our original appointment. Of course, having an absolute nightmare with parking, they closed the parking lot as it was full after we had been queuing for 15 minutes. We were going to be late and I did not care, a mix of disdain for the people who had let me down so badly and that emptiness you feel with a period of deep depression. 

We told the receptionist we were there, he knew us and what time our appointment was. He knew who we were, like I said, we had been there a lot.

Another woman was sitting in the chair in the tiny waiting area, her face showing the same painful hope I had had, past tense. I almost reached out to put my hand on her arm to wish her the luck we did not have, but I was not sure that is what you wanted to hear that we did not make it. No one wants to hear that possibility in the shape of a real-life person. 

The bubbly friendly nurse, who I liked from the day I met her and often spoke to her instead of a stern jaded doctor, bobbed over to us.

‘You guys are here for your transfer today aren’t you.’ I was speechless, I did not have words. A flash of Maybe this was a bad dream, am I waking up flickered. My husband stepped in, also in shock but clearly having more demand over his words to correct her error. 

This cannot be real.

As I paced the floor, they had removed the second chair that used to be there, and I thought this is my last time here. The world around me was a fuzz, a blur of people getting on with their lives as mine had stopped.

A door opened to reveal a woman and a pram, I could hear the words ‘Enhorabuena’ (congratulations) float out as without watching I was aware of the new mum manoeuvring the pram out of the small room. Some people get to be one of the few where IVF works, but I was not one. 

The digital clock struck midday and sang its little digital song, a man who had been perched on a hospital gurney that is always stored in the corridor, seemingly waiting for someone was looking around to figure out, as I once had, where the sound was coming from. I had enjoyed the novelty and whimsy of it the first time I heard it. Today it washed over me, the novelty had worn off. 

I looked down the narrow corridor, recognising it from my drugged haze being wheeled down it for egg collection. As I paced passing the open door of a doctor's room, I took in all the details. I read the emergency poster, the COVID poster, the evacuation and the floor plan. I paced and read all that was around me like a caged animal, listless.

All the time I avoided catching eye contact or seeing, really seeing, the huge poster that was like an elephant in the room.

A poster with babies feet and Reproducción Asistida underneath.

I remember catching sight of the words at one point and thinking Assisted reproduction, you have assisted me with nothing. Clearly, in the angry phase of grief, those seven stages are getting me at different times and in different ways.

They shouted my name wrong, I tiredly corrected them. Seriously.

I sat down, I could not look in anyone’s face, I could not deal with what I would see there. Or more so what they would see in me. Again they said my name wrong, again I corrected them in a toneless voice. At some point a medical student, I had never met, walked in and sat opposite me and beside the doctor. I did not acknowledge the change.

The doctor opened up asking about the missed calls the previous day and if I had managed to speak to someone. I bleakly said some mumbled reply, to which my husband translated into a clear response. The woman who called had left no notes on the system, I would say I gave whoever it was a fright from my sobbing and they did not know what to write on the system Told patient no more cycles and she’s a hot mess. Seriously though! That is heavy news! 

I pulled out my scrap of paper with the questions on it from my bag, I knew the answers to most of the questions I had put down in purple marker, but for some reason, I needed to hear it again. I did not even take my coat off this time, I was expecting a brisk in and out, we cannot help you please get out.

To my surprise, the doctor was so kind and empathetic, answering each of our questions with detail and a softness I had not witnessed before. Such a contrast to the first time we had met her. She had been the one who told us our first cycle was cancelled after almost two weeks of injections and hormonal crying. She had pursed lipsticked lips, she had said on repeat ‘I don’t understand’ to everything my husband and I said. I left the hospital doors and just screamed, shocking my husband with my outburst of anger, I shouted ‘DON’T PUMP ME WITH HORMONES AND TELL ME THAT!’. It was safe to say she was our least favourite, but today she was a different person.

She said she could really see how affected I was, that I had not smiled the whole time and she could see the sadness in my face. I can see the sadness in my face, I cannot look at myself in the mirror at the moment as the sadness in my eyes is shocking. My eyes are blue, and like the ocean reflect my mood in their colour. They say eyes are a window to the soul, and my broken soul is shining out of them. I could see from the corner of my eye she was teary seeing the difference in me. 

Previously I had somehow managed to be upbeat, I knew the odds were against me but I was going to give it my all. I was relieved someone had finally heard what I was saying and was going to help with what I knew, something was deeply wrong. I cracked jokes and would come back with ‘But it only takes one egg!’ when they mentioned my bleak-looking reserve. I have recently learnt that making jokes to deal with tense situations is a trauma response, it does not surprise me, but I am going to take it as the best side effect. I enjoy a laugh.

That day, although I could feel the moment a joke would be good, all I could muster was comments like ‘Well, I have bad genetics, at least they won’t get passed on’. When really I am heartbroken, no matter how bad my genetics are, that they will not be in the child I hope one day to hold as my own.

We discussed our options in depth, she gave her professional opinion and recommendations. This is what I needed, I needed someone to tell me there is hope, there can be a future with children, just different to the one I had hoped. That my grief can be reduced, I can have a child and be what I so desperately want. 

We discussed what went wrong, how my body is dead intent on me not bearing my own child, with or without medical intervention. It has thought of all ways and blocked them all. Blocked, like my poor embryos. It makes me wonder if it is vindictive or to protect me in some way… I can feel the voice whispering ‘You’re not supposed to be a mum, stop, take the hint, you’ll be shit’. How can you not when you tell someone your infertility struggles and they say ‘Maybe it’s not meant to be.’ After hearing variations of the same expression from more than one person, it is hard to not let the doubts sink in.

They have referred me about my endometriosis, she says I have to be prepared it is not going to reduce as it is progressive. The medication I had had to take for IVF had accelerated the growth of my endometriosis rapidly, in one week doubling in size. I had previously been reassured that if or when I got pregnant, pregnancy hormones could help. I had heard the same, not everyone as some women suffer terribly, but it is common. It was so hard to deal with that, I had just bloody spent thousands getting rid of that endometrioma on my ovary and it is now almost four times the size it was pre-surgery! The biggest it has ever been and I do not even get a transfer or another round or a pregnancy as a cure.

When we stood up to leave she came round the desk and said, ‘Come here and give me a hug'. She squeezed me and I just whispered, choked up, ‘Thank you’ in English, the tears brimming in my eyes. As we pulled away, I looked at her in the eye for the first time since we arrived and I could see tears. It was just such a relief to be seen as a broken-hearted human and not just a statistically hopeless case. She told us if we needed anything to call, we had the number and we can ask any questions about the next step, to just ask for her. It turns out they do provide assistance, but for me, not the fertility part. That is gone, I have passed into sterile.

It was a very abrupt and sudden end after so long of being strung along by doctors. We had first been referred for fertility assistance three and a half years ago but during that time had been given false hope of us being able to conceive without help. Not one of those doctors ever checked my follicle count.

As I walked out of the hospital I could feel the last line of that card It furthers one to have somewhere to go. Doing IVF I had a place to go, an aim and a focal point, so when I first read this I did not connect to it. But as I flailed around with my aim coming to an abrupt end, it set me off-kilter after having such a clear direction to walk, the card was right. It furthers me to have somewhere to go, and that appointment helped me with that. I now have a new direction to focus on.

It is a lot to process and I have so much grieving still to do, that my child will not be genetically mine wherever I find them. I watched Jason McBride’s wonderful Weirdo Poetry Show video about grief this week, it came in a very timely manner. It is true, that those stages of grief come not neat steps, but it is a mess of feelings sometimes all at once. I felt too that this loss is one that I will carry in my soul forever. But one part of the video that brought up a new realisation, when Jason says ‘I saw you today in the spark of my daughter’s eyes’, it hit me I will never see my family in my children. I will not get to see my laughing beloved grandma in the smile of my newborn, or the cheeky grin of my Nana in my toddler. However, I hope that spiritually they would come through, perhaps in the sparkle in their eye. 

Somehow, like my poem Shifting from Broken Beams to a Little Seed, hope is growing already in the cracks of my shattered self. I am still broken, a part of me has changed forever, a sadness stored in my cells. But here I am only a week after my news, writing for you. I am stronger than I thought as it turns out, the news I had been fearing all my life will not kill me and there will be something on the other side and it is up to me to create that.

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If you got here, well done! You’re a brave, dedicated soul and I appreciate more than words can say that you kept reading on. The fact you have read my heart pouring out into my longest writing piece makes me feel heard, thank you. 

As always, if you’re affected by anything I have written about today, I am so sorry. I send you an enormous squishy hug. I’m always open to connecting, either in the comments below or if you’d prefer privately via email at sheilaiswriting@gmail.com.

I am a sensitive soul who’s feeling very delicate and I ask please be gentle with what you say in the comments, although everyone is so kind here on Substack so I shouldn’t worry really.

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