A missed miscarriage 

At the seven week scan – the scan I was excited for – the scan where I could see the developing fetus, turned out to break my heart.

The father missed the train (yet another late night on the booze), without asking drove my car and arrived late to the hospital.  I missed my first appointment time. I was feeling stressed, I burst into tears and told him it was his fault. A nurse noticed and ushered me through to the scanning room. 

The look on her face said it all, there was no hope – the fetus wasn’t developing properly and the heart beat was slow – it wasn’t going to last.

I think I screamed! My heart ripped in two and because I was again so mad at him – his arms were the last place I wanted to go for comfort. It took me awhile to realise he was devastated too – the tears came later.

Two days later my body felt different – I called the fetus Derek after my late half brother. I don’t know why it just felt fitting. 

It took me four weeks until I was ready to let the hospital know what to do with the remains. Surgery was the best way for me but I still needed time to grieve and to consider a little burial ceremony – just me in attendance, but knowing I had somewhere to go as that may be the only child I have, was an important consideration.

I didn’t have a ceremony – I just moved on. But every so often I’m gripped by a terrible sadness and tears flow – as I really do think I’ve had my chance and I lost it.

In London watching life

So today I’ve travelled down to London for a two day workshop. It’s amazing how easily you can get lost in the crowd here. I need sunshine and the room I’m in smells – it is a travel lodge! I’ve found an outdoor area in a local pub and I’m sat watching the crowds. To say I’m antsy is an understatement. I’m still struggling with the idea of being pregnant – not helped by the fact I’m out of my comfort zone. If I had a wish right now I’d be at home. I feel fat and bloated and not at all attractive – I’m definitely suffering from low self and don’t know how to get happy. To stop whinging and feeling like a bit of a looser. All I keep thinking is that I’m acting like my mother – have I finally sucumbered to those genes. I feel like I’m being self destructive and I’m wondering if that is because I feel like I am alone in this whole thing? 

My partner is still overseas having a blast with friends while I struggle alone wondering how this is all going to work out. 

Am I anti social? Am I such a misery that noone wants to hang out? To be fair I’m not reaching out to people,  to be honest I’m not sure I have the motivation. 

Is my unhappiness a reflection of the fact I want to go back home to New Zealand?  The grass is definitely not greener but I’m finding it hard to figure out who I am and where my place is. And my partner’s ability to just fuck off and do his own thing is certainly not helping.

I think I’m waiting for him to man up. To make some decisions about where we live and find me and our future family a home we can all feel comfortable in – not just him. But I think I’m waiting for something that isn’t going to happen.  I think I either accept the situation or just go and try and find my happy. Sat in this pub is not it that’s for sure.

What they don’t tell you!

I’m in my 40’s and I’ve been rudely awoken to what it means to be pregnant. Beautiful stories of peace and serenity are just sickly sweet words tripped out by would be earth mothers afraid of admitting they aren’t prefect.

I’ve not been sick so I can’t blame nausea, my boobs hurt and my stomach feels like it has needles stuck in it – but that’s not the problem because apparently that is down to the 800gms of progesterone I’m inserting into my body everyday.

No, the problem is anger, the problem is I feel trapped, the problem is I don’t know who I am and I’m only three weeks into the whole thing.

You see I’m an IVF’er so I know exactly when I conceived – I’ve been counting the days to see if the embryos embedded. I’ve undergone an awful lot of indignity leading up to this momentous occasion – which I’ll save for another time as I’m just not ready to relive the physical pain and emotional rollercoaster just yet. So I should be ecstatic, I should be joyous and exalted.

But you know what, I am and I’m not – I just can’t get past this feeling that I am now beholden, not only to this little thing growing inside me who I must and want to look after at all costs, – but to the father of this little thing. I’m terrified I’m never going to live the life I want to live, that I am now stuck, shortly to be financially dependent – and at the whim of his decision making, or not. It is scary, it feels like I am being transported back into the 1950s and I’m not sure I’m dealing with it at all well!

 

Nesting is real 

So it is a well known fact mothers-to-be really should stay calm. Having already come to quickly understand that feelings of loss and resentment are a natural response to being pregnant…I now have another lesson to rapidly learn- all those little things which have annoyed you about your living situation now become huge!

I’m talking about this ridiculous situation I find myself in – baring in mind I’m in my 40s as is my partner! We rent – have done since we moved in together a number of years ago. He earns good money and mine is not to be sniffed at. So why I hear you ask have we not bought something – well that has something to do with said partner wanting to buy his family home and said partner’s parents very much alive and kicking – travelling the world making no moves to actually move, despite three years of “I want to be out of this house by next Christmas” type talk!

Not only do we rent but we rent a cave – there is no light unless you sit on the window sil going up the stairs from the second to the third floor. The stairs on the first to second floor have mirrors artistically arranged to give the illusion of light, but it doesn’t capture any so it just looks like a 70s brothel. Alternatively you can spend time in the main bedroom receiving light from the skylights – just don’t expect a view. And we have been here over 2 years.

Now before you start on at me about how I ought to think about all those people who are homeless, who are stricken by the terrible effects of war – let me remind you – this is my blog, this is my vent about my personal life and this is how my feelings are affecting me.

So how does one deal with this rather sticky situation? I feel like my head is about to explode from living in this light-less building, made all the worse by the constant grey and rain we call summer.

While my partner is convinced his parents will pull finger and miraculously announce their decision to move and hand the family pile to said son, I on the other hand am somewhat dubious and think not.

To make matters worse said partner, who has traveled and lived abroad many times, and is in-fact on holiday as I type, refuses to move from the village/town we live in – even for the time it’s going to take to transfer the family home. Why you ask???  I assume it is because of the pub…

Being the woman I am, I’ve pulled finger and found somewhere else for us, a new home which has lots of windows, is light and airy and oh it has a view, and closer to the pub – but the tenancy is for 12 months, guess what…….. he won’t signup for that long!

 

Stick it up your ar@e love

Have I said – I’m tired, exhausted to the point I can’t think some days – yesterday I felt like this man. I didn’t care, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

I’ve been this ridiculously tired for weeks now, before the transfer – I think it started doing the injection phase – two weeks of needles into my tummy administered by my partner, apart from the morning when he didn’t return home in time from a night out in Manchester, despite promises and a ticking off because I didn’t trust him to catch the 6am train and get home in time – my assumptions are often correct!

Since the transfer I’ve been self administering Cyclogest twice a day, that is 800mgs of progesterone. The instructions advise inserting the bullet like pessaries one of two ways, I chose the more dignified way  as I reasoned it was just like using a tampon.

For three weeks I’ve been doing this, night and day. Have I mentioned I’m tired? I’ve also have needle like pain and my ovaries feel like they are still been stimulated – I’m uncomfortable, bloated and not at all happy.

Having read some forums and message boards about the effects, I finally realised that I might not actually have it so bad, some of these women weren’t getting out of bed, and many complained about letting out an awful lot of wind!

But despite the assurances, the fact that I have a full time, full on job  – this inability to keep my eyes open at times is causing me a lot of worry and stress, and the work is pilling up. So needing some reassurance and hopefully a way to keep awake for the next 8 months I called the hospital to see if they had a solution – though the word ar@e may not have been used! I was certainly instructed to stick it up my rectum to see if that improved the situation – I declined and went to bed at 6.30pm!