Can I just quit?

So I’m still just reeling from my news and it’s almost been 2 weeks now.

I’m still trying to figure out how when the worst possible thing you can imagine happens and then you find out later it just gets worse.

I’ve tried to pick myself up and keep moving.

I’ve spent many hours pounding my punching bag.

I’ve consumed more alcohol than I thought I would ever consume.

I’ve spent hours reading medical journals and literature about Asherman’s and surgery and how with my history of RPL, it’s just not worth wasting embryos on my uterus ever again even IF I found an expert to attempt to remove the scar tissue.

I’ve had moments where I felt relieved that I will never be pregnant again.  I’m strangely comforted by knowing my body/uterus will never be responsible for killing another baby.

I’ve put the only energy I have left into furthering our surrogacy plans.  Because that’s all I have now.

I’ve found myself resenting the fact that I have the most wonderful living daughter because if I didn’t have her, I wouldn’t have to keep going.  And then I hate myself because that makes me a pretty shitty mother to even wish for a second that I didn’t have the responsibility of my daughter when she’s all I have and the only baby I’ll ever have carried.  I just want to quit.

No more decisions to make

Decisions that sometimes seem agonizing in the moment become even more so when they are taken away.

I had been torturing myself trying to figure out if we should try a FET, when we should try a FET, if we should transfer one or two, etc.

Well, that decision was taken away from me this morning.

I had a hysteroscopy to look at my uterus and I have developed significant adhesions/scar tissue (Asherman’s Syndrome).   My RE said he could attempt to operate and ‘fix my uterus up a bit’, but that given my history it would be against his better judgment and he’s ‘happy for me’ that we are attempting surrogacy.

Just like that, I’m done.  I’ll never get pregnant again.  I’ll never even have the potential to carry a baby to term.  I won’t get the chance to beat this RPL.  And worse yet, it’s 100% the cause of MY bad decision I made in the hours after I found out my sweet Abby was dead.  I didn’t think I could bear to be induced, so I chose the D&C that did this to me.  The OB said she was using ultrasound and would be extremely cautious given my history.  Guess that didn’t help.

At least when my miscarriages happened, I never felt like they were (really) my fault.  I knew I had done everything I knew how at the time to be taking care of my baby.  And now I’m hit in the gut with this diagnosis and it’s 100% my fault.  I don’t even know what more to say.  I guess that’s what happens when you ask ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’.   It just gets worse.

What’s the worst that can happen?

So my husband and I are not on the best of terms right now, but we’re trying.  Trying to communicate, trying to pretend that we aren’t as bad off as we probably are.  Anyway, we started having another discussion about this (potential) upcoming FET.

His opinions in a nutshell:

Why not go for it? MMB:  Let me list a few (hundred) reasons.  Or, maybe not even a few hundred- let’s just list 6 failed pregnancies out of 7.  When you have shitty odds, you don’t exactly expect lightening to strike you again (in a good way).  He knows what a toll this has taken on my body, on my mental state, on our relationship, on my ability to be a good mother for our daughter, I really just don’t get how he can even ask this.  

It seems stupid to sit around and wait for a surrogate candidate to be identified when you ‘know’ you can get pregnant. MMB: Um, sure, I can get pregnant, but how does that equate to a take-home-baby when it comes down to my uterus?  And what if I don’t get pregnant this time?  Lots of women have failed transfers.  I’ve had two ‘successful’ transfers take, what if this is my 1 in 3 that doesn’t work?  There’s a new way for me to have a failed outcome that I’d rather not experience.

At least it will give you something to do in the meantime (while waiting for a surrogate). MMB: Hmm, as if I don’t have anything else to do like take care of our toddler and try to make it through each day without imploding or exploding or getting arrested for assaulting some poor random pregnant woman who triggers me. 

We should definitely transfer 2 embryos because that increases our odds and we’ll save a few thousand dollars on not doing another FET if this one doesn’t work.  MMB: Yes, because we don’t really want twins it makes sense to transfer two.  And my body does such a bang-up job with carrying ONE baby, I should tempt it again with attempting to carry TWO?  We transferred two embryos last time (our first transfer and miscarriage #5 was a Single Embryo Transfer) and I was pregnant with two sacs but only one kept growing.

At least you’ll be trying again.  I would think that would be healing for you.  MMB: Who knows?  Right now it just seems to be giving me more anxiety.  But seriously, I think I’m past the point of thinking there’s anything really healing in all of this. 

Whats the worst that can happen?  MMB:  Are you kidding me?  I guess he thinks that the worst has already happened to us so somehow it won’t happen again?  If that’s the case, I hope against hope that we’ve been through the worst and it’s not going to happen again.  But I can no longer even pretend that I believe that this is true.  I tried to think that  after we had lost 5 babies and I was in the second trimester with Abby, that the worst was over and we were in the clear.  Then we lost our Abby and she was scraped out of me on Mother’s Day.  I don’t want that rug pulled out from under me (yet again).  Maybe I’m just far too jaded by my experience (and I’ve heard other people’s horrible stories of loss) that I can graphically imagine other horrible outcomes.  I mean, Mother’s Day has effectively been ruined for me, but I’m sure there’s some other holiday that can also be ruined.  I could make it to 23 weeks this time and then lose the baby just before viability.  I could be on bedrest for weeks and not able to care for Sweetie, and then still lose the baby(ies).  I could carry the baby(ies) to term and then still lose them.  Hell- I could get pregnant with a healthy pregnancy and then somehow my Sweetie gets sick or worse (oh my goodness, I feel like I shouldn’t even type that even though every day I have major anxiety that something bad will happen to her).  Or maybe I’ll have another loss and this time it really will drive me over the edge and I’ll either be dead or committed to a mental hospital.  Yes, I really shouldn’t play the ‘what’s the worst that can happen game’.  Can you blame me?  Why does my husband insist on playing?

Ok, I’m sorry, I have to stop and say that I’m really not saying all these things to my husband in the way I stated above.  Even when we’re arguing, we both try to be respectful and non-snarky.  I just REALLY have to come vent here on my blog because I don’t have any other safe place to vent.  My husband is a wonderful man and he’s doing the best he can. That said, he does see things in a very black and white manner and he doesn’t have (any) of the need to analyze things the way I do.  So it leaves me feeling very unheard on most discussions especially when he thinks it’s a ‘no-brainer’.

I guess maybe I just need him to say that it’s scary as hell to try this again, instead of just trying to wrap this into a neat little ‘of course we should try again’ package.

 

The little girl I lost

I was also on vacation when I finally heard from my OB that the last genetic testing came back perfectly normal on the little girl I lost.   That was my last straw of hope for some explanation as to why her perfect little heart stopped beating.  Some explanation that doesn’t come down to my body failing me and my babies yet again.  Some explanation that doesn’t come back to the universe or God just piling more shit on my plate for some ultimate ‘reason’ that I’ll never understand.

I named her, and I wanted to share that with you.

Abigail Mary

My sweet little girl I lost on Mother’s Day.  My Sweetie’s little sister she’ll never get to meet.  My husband’s second daughter and second chance at having a Daddy’s girl (because Sweetie is pretty 70/30 Mommy’s girl).

We have never named any of our babies that we’ve lost before.  We never really agreed on girl’s names to begin with (not even Sweetie’s name, I had to badger him for months about that and in the end I think he just gave in because I had just labored for 30+ hours and pushed her out!)  My husband still didn’t want to name this 6th lost baby, so I will just carry her name in my heart alone.

I’m  feeling a bit guilty about not naming my others now, but losing my 6th baby girl is just so much later and harder than any other of my losses.  I had to honor my baby that I saw so many times on the ultrasound (weekly u/s when you have RPL), heard her little heartbeat so many times, carried her for 16 weeks.

My little Abby.  I love her and miss her every moment of every day.

I’m not strong

I hate it when someone tells me how strong I am.  Yes, I’ve made it through 6 miscarriages and I’m still standing (barely, at the moment).  But please don’t tell me this makes me strong.

I didn’t have a choice in any of this, every day I wish this were not my life, that this didn’t happen to me.  I am only doing what any other person would do given the same sh***y circumstances.  I’m not strong, every morning I just want to quit.  In fact, if I didn’t have one daughter who depends on me, I would have quit.

In fact, I think I’m the opposite of strong.  Recurrent Pregnancy Loss has broken me.  I’ve become a person that I don’t like when I look in the mirror.  It’s made me so angry and mean and bitter.  I am not happy for friends when they so easily get pregnant and their bodies don’t betray them.  I want to punch every pregnant woman that I see in the grocery store (or mall, or park-  lets face it they are fricken EVERYWHERE).  I am scared to death of getting pregnant again.  No, take that back.  I’m not scared to get pregnant again- I do that pretty well.  I’m scared to death of losing another baby.  I have anxiety attacks now thinking I’m going to lose my living daughter.   I’m not strong enough to handle this again, so I just won’t try.  I can’t.

So I’m not strong.  I’m a quitter. A baby loser.  A failure.  So many things other than strong.