Today I’m supposed to be seven weeks. It’s around this time that Pip stopped growing. Somewhere between my 6 week 4 day scan and my 7 week 4 day scan. Sometime after my bleeding episode, which was remarkably like this weeks bleeding episode. The similarities are shocking and scary.
This time I’m trying to take solace in knowing that birdie is measuring a little better than Pip, although still a day behind, and that I have a real doctor who actually poked around and diagnosed the cause of the bleeding. Last time Dr. A just shoved the wand in, pointed out the heartbeat and sent me home.
Still though, I know that a slightly larger embryo and diagnosis of SCH is not enough to promise me a baby. There is still a pretty good chance I’ll go in next week, at 7 weeks 4 days, and hear the same damn thing – nothing.
I woke up happy this morning. Had my eggs and gluten-free toast. Treated myself to some vegan cheese. Had my one tiny cup of allowed coffee. Spent 30 minutes playing with the cats and then 20 minutes watching a bird video with them. I fed them some treats and then showered and got dressed. This is when my day went rapidly down hill.
For the first time since I started Prozac the self hate came flooding back: I hate that I’m so fucking broken.
I’m angry that my first baby is dead. I’m angry that the odds are again stacked against me. I’m angry there could be another dead baby come Tuesday. I’m angry that I can’t do this naturally. I’m angry that I’m surrounded by happy families who spend their mornings getting cute kids ready while I watch a fucking bird video with my cats.
I’m angry that infertility has driven a wedge between myself and so many friends.
I’m lonely and I’m scared and I really need a hug BUT I have not told anyone about this so no one knows I’m lonely, scared and needing a hug. The people who know me in real life that read this have been strictly forbidden to talk about the potential pregnancy because I’m scared of jinxing it even though I know you can’t “jinx” a pregnancy.
Instead I’m sitting in my office behind a closed-door, quietly crying and blowing my nose in a roll of scratchy toilet paper I stole from the 2nd floor bathroom, the only bathroom on all 9 floors where the toilet paper is not locked in dispensers.
(I’ll post the rest of my Thanksgiving menu this afternoon. Right now writing about food does not sound fun but I guess neither does wallowing in anger and rubbing my nose raw with cheap toilet paper.)