Normal karyotype. A boy. I lost a son.

Friday early evening

I am beside myself.

I got the genetic test results—normal karyotype. A boy. That would have been our son. I don’t know what to say. That would have been our little boy. It wasn’t a chromosomal abnormality. The doctors all thought it was Trisomy 16. They seemed confident it was “acting genetic.” It wasn’t a trisomy after all. We are at square one again, and I lost a son.

All of this emotional investment. All of this time, energy, money. I just keep thinking: that would have been our little boy. We both thought it was a girl for some reason. But it was a boy. A boy! Images of DH as a little boy, flashing.

I haven’t talked to any doctors yet, just a nurse who couldn’t comment. Five early losses with my own eggs, no fetus present. Three IVF embryos which tested abnormal and were not transferred. And now donor egg, a perfect AA embryo, a normal boy with a little heartbeat, and I lost him.

Later Friday night

I found out the news at lunch. At 2:30 p.m. I started hysterical sobbing. I was in a parking lot. Talked to my friend in Wyoming. Called my boss, Heather, and told her that I just found out very bad news and didn’t think it was a good idea for me to come back to the office for the rest of the day. I have six vacation days coming to me, so I could have easily taken 3.5 hours from that vacation time, if need be.

Her response was, “I always find a walk in the fresh outdoors to be enriching, maybe you should try that?”

Pause. “What?’

“We need you back at the office, the office is in turmoil, as you know.” It is not in turmoil, of course. Not even close! Only her mind is in turmoil. Something is very wrong with her. When her true colors come out, as they inevitably do, it is disturbing. I’ve tried to be empathetic, tried to understand her, take her support in whatever ways she is able to give it, but—I find a walk in the fresh outdoors to be enriching? Are you fucking serious???

“I’m not trying to shirk my responsiblities,” I said. “I just don’t think that I am going to be able to be a good social worker right now because I’m so upset.”

“Have some ice water,” Heather said. “That helps me when I’m upset.”

“Ice water.”

She told me to come back in. I called Human Resources and told them the situation, and they said that unfortunately, because I was resigning, I was not able to take half a vacation day for the rest of the day. “If your supervisor isn’t approving it, you have to come back, or it’s job abandonment,” she said. “It could be serious. I’m sorry.”

So, after talking to DH, I went back to the office. I  saw a resident’s family member whom I recently helped, and who was grateful for my efforts. “Oh my God, what is wrong?” she said. She threw her arms around me. I sobbed.

A rush. Such love. Those arms! Even when news is devastating, love knocks me down with its power.

I came into the office. Trying to pull it together. Everyone can see. They ask. I answer as best I can. I cry. A blur. I go to get some water. More people. More questions.

A nurse, I’ll call her Jessie, sees me. She throws her arms around me, too. Pulls me to her chest. She strokes me like I’m a little girl. I try to tell her what’s going on. She takes me back to the social work office. Sits down with me. Listens.

But my boss Heather comes over and joins with the nurse, and she is hammering me with questions. Her questions are relentless and her comments are painfully minimizing. The subtext is: You shouldn’t feel this upset. I feel blindsided.

The nurse has to leave (for the moment). Then I sit there. I stare unseeing at the screen, at the papers in my hand. A small part of my job is to greet incoming residents, and one is supposed to come in, but I can’t imagine greeting anyone. I go to the Human Resources office for advice. I say to her, “I just want to say thank you for being kind and compassionate to me on the phone, it means so–”

And then just crying. Wanting not to. Apologizing. Feeling idiotic. Why did I come in here? I suddenly can’t remember. She is saying “of course.” I am telling her the gist of what is happening. I say, “I’m supposed to be greeting a new resident but I feel funny doing that right now, in my current emotional state. I guess I need to talk to someone about what I should do”—because I can’t talk to my boss for advice, I didn’t add.

I just want to cry in her arms, but don’t. It was a boy, I want to say. We could have had a son. Why didn’t we? Why is this happening? 

She is encouraging me to make it through the rest of the day. We are talking about the fact that I gave more notice than was necessary when I resigned. I am questioning the wisdom of doing so. She says that she will see what she can do about changing it from four weeks to three, as three is the policy. I find myself saying: “Let’s leave it at four. I don’t want to burn bridges. I want be as professional as possible.”

She is telling me the weekend is coming up. She is saying it will help. I am believing her and thanking her and hugging her again. She is saying how sorry she is and I am going back to the office.

Where my boss is in her usual mode, frantic, and acting toward me like I’ve stubbed my toe, nothing more.  I don’t know what is happening while she is there. I am turning off. Staring at the papers in my hand unseeingingly again. Thinking, Why would you want me here right now? How am I a help to anyone for the next three hours? What is this for?  I am thinking I should be home in DH’s arms. In a sane world, that is where I would be right now. FUCK THIS. 

After she leaves for the day, there is venting from the two social workers in my office–sympathy and empathy toward me, apologies from me for my emotionality, and venting about our boss. It is validating. To feel the comradery.

After they leave for the day, one of the psychologists who works with our facility comes in. I’ll call her Nancy. She sees my eyes and knows something is wrong. The eye contact. The intelligence, compassion. She talks to me about women in her generation (she is a decade or so older than me) who had trouble, her friends, how she has some understanding of what I am going through.

I tell Nancy that I am resigning. “Oh my God,” she says. “Congratulations! Get out of this place.” She points to my boss’s empty chair. “And away from her.”

Then the nurse Jessie comes back to check on me. She pulls a chair up beside me with Nancy. And it all comes out. Like purging poison. Story after story about Heather. And I realize everyone who has had to deal with my boss professionally suffers from their interactions with her, and not in a small way. The nurse says that when my boss comes down to her unit, her staff will feel agitated and argumentative for hours afterward, and it will take them a while to realize it was just the effect of being around her, her cutting comments, her frantic energy.

“I am so sorry I haven’t reached out to you yet about this,” says the psychologist, Nancy. “But I think Heather has some very serious pathological behaviors, and is personality disordered. Pathological narcissism and she’s so unrelated it’s disturbing.  I know it’s easy to throw labels around but I’ve been working with her for many, many years now. And she is limited intellectually. I know that she is intimidated by you and Mo [my co-worker], because you both have great clinical skills, and she has none. I don’t know the politics of why she is still here, but it is unethical that she has power over you. Especially right now.”

I tell Nancy that I feel sick, because I know I need Heather to sign off on my clinical hours for the year, and I feel that I need her for a recommendation letter. But she is acting crazier and crazier, and I don’t know what to expect.

The psychologist leans forward. She says: “Listen to me. You don’t need to worry about that. We think you are a talented and gifted clinician, who has blossomed under the most trying conditions. I will write you a glowing recommendation letter for any job, and so will any of the other psychologists.” I start to feel less worried, safer.

“But you shouldn’t be here,” she says. “This job is not challenging enough for your skill level and your gifts. This facility in particular is no place for you, but in my opinion, I don’t think you should be a staff social worker anywhere. I think you should have a private practice.” I tell her some of my ideas on this front, and she is excited, says that she and the other psychologists would help me in whatever ways they can.

And then we are leaving, going home. I feel validated and vindicated, safer and understood.

And I realize that I’ve basically displaced the huge storm of my baby’s karyotype news into this long, venting conversation about work and my boss, and at the end of it, I still have my news, and I have to go home.

It would have been a little boy. He was normal. He died inside me. He couldn’t grow there.

And what do I do with this news? Where does it go? How?

Just–how?

**********

Saturday morning

Dead, dead, dead. No sleep last night.

Have talked to friends. My mom. DH.

The nightmare situation I have somehow found myself in, when all along I was choosing health and sanity, the path toward moving on.

Now here. Back in the nightmare, even deeper than before.

The choice:

Donate/discard two remaining embryos. Or subject self to what could be a 7th loss.

Friends and family encouraging me to try again with the embryos. “I just don’t think you could live with yourself if you didn’t try,” they say. I feel the same.

But also feel that I cannot put myself through this again.

Both things are true. Both paths are cruel.

Of course will not make any decisions right now, yadda, yadda. Talk to all of the doctors, blah blah. Not in state to decide, yes, not, no, not now.

I know what the options are going to be.

Get tested for immune problems by one of the three doctors in the country who offer these tests, and possibly get what sound like barbaric treatments, even though there is no solid scientific research to back this theory up, as far as I can tell. I guess I have another research project on this front. Instead of a baby. More computer and sadness and RESEARCHING and time passing. But no family. No baby. No son.

Go on Lovenox. Even though they are currently questioning the ethicality and validity of even testing women for Factor V Leiden, because the science is showing that Factor V, along with MTHFR, are not the problem. And I’m heterozygous, never had blood clot. And they say the losses have been too early for it to be blood clots. And I’ve had my blood flow tested with doppler and it is excellent. But that will be the next useless intervention thrown my way, I’m sure. Lovenox. Useless interventions for desperate times.

Will look at my uterine cavity AGAIN, and again find that it is perfectly shaped, unobstructed, no fibroids, just a smooth clean place for babies to attach. And die.

Beautiful fall day. Am just here in my stupid bed again, typing. I always think that things cannot get worse, but they always do. At every turn. Worse. I’m not a bad person. I do not deserve this, do not deserve a dilemma so cruel.

I should be building my life right now. Celebrating holidays. Birthdays. Forming connections. Raising my children. Growing. Nurturing my household. But I keep getting struck by lightening.

I can’t do this anymore. Any of it. I really can’t. I will walk through the motions. But I am gone.

I honestly don’t know how to keep bouncing back anymore.

I am avoiding leaving this keyboard and entering the quietness and emptiness. Walking around with my relentless thoughts. And emotions too big for my body.

I feel like writing is all I have right now. I know that’s not true. DH is only part of everything I have that is beautiful in my life, and his beauty is mountain-sized.

But sometimes, in spite of all this, I don’t recognize my life at all.

Am thinking of a quote from Leaves of Grass, found at the beginning of one of my favorite novels, Mrs. Bridge, by Evan S. Connell.

But where is what I started for, so long ago?

And why is it yet unfound? ~Walt Whitman

It made me wistful, so long ago when I first read it—when I was twenty-seven years old. I remember the passage resonating, then, but of course I had no idea how young I was at the time. We never do.

I will be forty next month. Nearly halfway through this life. Where is what I started for? Why is it yet unfound?

*******

Saturday evening

A little better after talking to one of my best friends. I’ll call her Dee. She’s in month 4 of her 13th attempt at recovery from alcoholism, and has now been near death many times. She’s in AA and loving it. She and I–we have brains manufactured in the same factory by the gods. We speak the same language, understand each other deeply. You might be surprised at how similar the experience of recurrent miscarriage is to recurrent bouts with neurological alcoholism.

It was an inspiring conversation, one I spent completely naked, laying in the sunshine on the living room floor, eyes swollen grotesquely, stomach growling.

I’ll have to write about that conversation sometime. Maybe tomorrow.

I hesitate to post this rawness. But readers say the rawness is helpful, normalizes what they’re going through. So I will.

Seeing babies today is painful at a new level. Newer levels of pain—this is an unexpected trip indeed.

Dee and I talked about not fighting it. “I’m flowing now,” she said. “Not fighting.” She talked about how much pleasure she gets putting the grocery cart back in its place after she unloads her groceries into her truck. “I’m not causing friction or contributing to chaos, ” she said, “when I put that cart back. I’m contributing to order.” We both laughed. Love that. Love her.

I swear to you I have been thinking of Dee’s goddamned grocery cart all damn day.

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35 Comments

  1. I’m so F’in mad for you. Normal freaking karotype!! I need to think more about what I have to say but wanted to reach out to give you a hug. I’ve seen this a lot where women are told it is their eggs so they move to donor eggs. But then DE doesn’t work or leads to more m/c. There is something else going on that REs don’t understand. I’ve seen some of these controversial treatments work. I hate when doctors dismiss them as hocus pocus. I know Dr S does not believe in them-he was blunt about how he felt. But I think there is something to them. That said, I don’t have the stomach, energy or $ to look into them. It’s another whole language, more to research etc. I’m too tired to deal with it down the line. It shouldn’t be this hard!!! I hate this for you. Too many losses. It’s just cruel. I am so sorry.

    Reply
    • Thank you so much. For your support, your outrage on my behalf. I am just at a loss. If it were a couple of years ago, or even a year ago, I could consider the energy/$ of those therapies, but I’m just not sure if I can now—like you, I feel too tired. We all have limits. Maybe I have just reached mine. There is something else going on. It’s so sad. So hard. And time keeps going by. We’ll probably never know. And then we’ll just have to move on.

      Reply
  2. Dre

     /  November 17, 2013

    Oh, Darlin’. I’m right there with you right now except working to keep myself from taking a hammer to my relationship with my husband, because everything is bearing down on me, and I feel terrible for inflicting myself and this pain on him. I’m told you and I will find our way out of these depths, but it sure doesn’t make sense or seem possible right now, does it? I’m so sorry for your loss.

    Reply
    • Thank you warmly. I think I really need to get out of the depths, now. I’m not sure, but I am feeling a pull. It’s too dangerous here. I really might throw in the towel.

      Reply
  3. Duuuuuude, the boss situation is just not even legal. Can you take some time off for grief? You could totally report her for creating a hostile work environment. I’ve been there with a previous boss and I had PTSD for months after that job, which is why I quit the recent job so quickly when I realized it was also “toxic”. Never again. I cringe at the thought of you crying on your way into work on Monday. On the other hand, your coworkers seem like amazing people. I dunno what to do. Can I just tell you that you’re not alone? I had a fight with Mr. MLACS (over the phone of course since he’s been away for 2+ weeks) last night that was the “icing on the cake” as my nerves are raw from fighting through this week. I have laid on my couch in my pink reindeer pajamas ALL DAY, spending most of it crying and wondering who the hell I even am anymore and what the hell am I doing with my life. And it was a beautiful fall day and I missed it. And you’re not alone. *tears* It will get better–it has to. XO

    Reply
    • Life is too short for toxic workplaces and bosses, and I commend you—your new job sounded insane, not a good place for you to be right now. My coworkers were so wonderful when I think about them I tear up. I keep wanting to fall into that nurse’s arms again—am fantasizing being against her chest while she strokes my hair. That is crazy-hard about Mr. MLACS. God. If you have the resources maybe couples counseling would help. DH and I have gone to couples counseling on a few occasions, the last time dealing with my suicidal ideation post baby-loss and IVF failure. Today he is trying so hard to do right by me but I am not able to engage with him—I feel numb. Anyway, all to say, fights are inevitable, and distance, rawness. With you. I know I’m not alone—thank you for that. Crying with you. It will get better, I think it probably will. But I think I might have to get out of this entire endeavor.

      Reply
  4. Nyforlife

     /  November 17, 2013

    Oh, how painful to read, yet it so needed to be written and thus read.. I remember those feelings, that rawness, that pain that seems so boundless, as though it could encompass everything and everyone in it’s path. Just go with it for now. I remember going to my best friend’s house and yelling, sobbing, shrieking….feeling I would just get swallowed up in the absolute evilness of the situation. But you can’t make yourself feel better right now. Just take tomorrow and feel everything there is to feel. When my last karyotype came back normal, I went through the same thought process. Except I had done the Lovenox! Next it was going to be the immune treatments which maybe work? Honestly, one reason I didn’t do them is because if they didn’t work, there was nothing left. Except adoption. And I didn’t want adoption to be my last resort. I wanted it to be something we turned to and embraced with full knowledge that we were choosing it – not being forced into it. There will always be another treatment, another doctor. You will just have to determine where your threshold is. But that is a thought for another time. For now, I wish you peace, a calm mind, and a good night’s sleep.

    Reply
    • Thank you so much for this comment. I have been thinking about it. I’m not going to make any decisions today. But I’ve never been pulled so strongly in the direction of quitting all of this. It is dangerous here. I don’t feel safe. I don’t want to do more shots. I don’t want to have another D & C. My spirit can take only so much. Lovenox, immune therapies—something just tells me I’m already at the end. DH doesn’t think so. But it’s my body. He will support whatever I decide. Anyway. No matter what, it is almost over, and for that, I feel some relief. I can end the torture today. I have that power. The other torture might be worse, though (the what-if torture). My threshold, my limits—what are they in each category. Thank you for writing, for sharing and supporting me.

      Reply
    • And also Nyforlife, am so sorry to hear about what you went through. Did you move on to adoption?

      Reply
  5. I’m so so sorry :(. I wish there was something to say to help, it just seems so completely unfair. You’re so right, you don’t deserve this.

    Reply
  6. newtoivf

     /  November 17, 2013

    I wish there were words that would help. sending you so much strength and hope the rest of your time at work goes as quickly as possible. xx

    Reply
  7. Been following for awhile, but feel a need to comment on this post.

    First off, I’m so so sorry for the loss of little star. Heartbreaking and I have no words to express the heaviness that exists in my heart for you. This recent news is like reopening the wound and dumping a whole bucket of salt in it. It’s so unfair and I wish it on no one.

    One of the hardest things about this news, though, is the belief that your body is failing on a whole new level. And there is zero explanation or rational that seems creditable. I remember being in a similar spot (2 losses with genetically normal embryos and still a diagnosis of “unexplained infertility”). It’s enough to drive the average person insane.

    I don’t have any advice to offer regarding the autoimmune testing. But I will say this: trust your gut. Whether something feels right or not, do what you feels is best for you and your family. And do not for a second apologize for doing so (especially with someone who is completely off their rocker). You’re already doing it, but during times like these it can be hard to keep the doubt at bay.

    Finally, please know that you are not alone. To this day my doctors are still clueless as to what is going on with me. And, frankly, until people recognize tha infertility and loss are not points of vanity but legitimate life traumas I doubt that will change. Still, you are not alone.

    Abiding with you.

    Reply
    • Thank you so much for taking the time to write so thoughtfully and I am really taking to hear what you say, “trust your gut.” My gut, today, is gently telling me that this part of the trip is over. Maybe I will find some energy, insight, reason to try other things. But where will the money come from, the time and energy—gone.

      It is very, very hard to keep the doubt at bay, you are right! I feel doubtful about everything. Which makes the gut-trusting quite tricky. I doubt my resistance to the immune-therapy interventions—it’s a combination of having multiple doctors warn me against them and being worn out and broke. But I doubt my resistance.

      I’m so sorry for your own losses, and the unexplained awfulness. How will you go forward? Are you moving on to adoption?

      Reply
  8. There are so many things I need to say to you. I read this in the morning but couldn’t control my sobbing so I have come back to it now with a bit more thought. I am so angry at the universe right now, so devastated for you. This is so hard.

    Our last was a boy too. As soon as you learn this information it opens up all the wounds like it happened yesterday. So much pain. So much emotional investment. So many visuals flashing before your eyes of that boy’s life, of your life with that boy. It hurts in so many ways.

    But now learning that there is another reason why this hasn’t worked is terrifying. More questions, more investigations, more research, more trial and error. This fight is so hard. I know you are going to hit it hard, whether you have it in you or not. But please please listen to yourself in this process. Please be kind to yourself in this process. You need to. You’re gone and I know why. I know how this has taken away everything from you. I am furious for it. Keep writing honey, keep it flowing. Keep the rawness flowing.

    “Useless interventions for desperate times.” I so totally get that. This is me. Trying anything because we don’t know what to do anymore. What else do we do?

    Your boss is a nightmare and I cannot wait for you to be out of there. I am enraged by her comments to you. Fucking ice water. I am so relieved that were others who showed you the affection and compassion you deserve, it restores my faith in humanity. And I am pleased that they reassured you that your boss is not normal. Under no circumstances should you be subjected to this horrible treatment any longer.

    I can see the similarities between alcoholism and RM. It takes you to hell and back over and over again. But I like Dee’s idea of flowing. No more fighting, just going with it. What else can we do now, the fight is too hard.

    Sending you so much love. xxx

    Reply
    • Oh honey, thank you for that love, for your tears and friendship. Oh, a boy, too! Oh, no no no no. I wish we didn’t have to know that they were boys! It’s too much!!! I’m so sorry you lost him!!!

      God!

      I am trying to listen to myself today. Thank you for reminding me to listen to myself and to be kind to myself. I am not always kind to my dear, dear self, and then I feel terrible for being neglectful.

      I don’t know what I’m hearing exactly, but am not safe in this territory any longer, I think. I will have to make a very hard decision. But I have time.

      I am at risk, here. My life. My sanity. My love relationship. So that’s a lot.

      My friend Dee says, “I decided I had two options: I could live or I could die. Dying was a huge gamble, because I had no idea what death was like. But I knew what life was like. I knew how to be a person in this body, on this earth. So I went with that. And as long as I went with that, I needed to learn how to be alive in the best way I could manage.”

      If I am going to be alive on this planet, in this body, I’m wondering if maybe I need to make some very different choices right about now. Because what is happening—this repeated grief and sorrow, isolation, drawn-out horror—is starting to feel like a self-inflicted horror show. Not that I blame myself for trying all that I have thus far—it hasn’t been all that much, in the big scheme of things, and the statistics were in my favor. But now they most certainly cannot be in my favor. And if that is so, then what am I doing here?

      I thought of compassionate loss—transferring the two so that they go in a compassionate way. But that’s nuts. Of course I would donate them, because they are most likely normal karyotypes, too.

      Putting them back in me…what if a little life with a heartbeat suffers? What if, by putting them in me, I am causing two little lives to struggle and suffer during their brief six weeks on earth?

      Should not be trying to decide anything at all right now. Must let go of that effort now…

      I wouldn’t call anyone else’s efforts useless or desperate honey—I only throw those cruel adjectives my own way in my distraught state. You are doing something very forward-looking and courageous, in my opinion, and I for one am damn glad you are. I want it to work for you so badly, so very badly.

      Thank for that validation about my insane boss—I needed that! I’m distracting myself with that outrage, obviously. But in some weird way it helps to know I am getting away from something bad for me—to have that control, to have made that good decision, gives me some small sense of self-efficacy.

      Love and peace and more love back to you. xxoo

      Reply
  9. I am so, so, so, sorry for everything. EVERYTHING. Your boss is beyond unbelievable. I am so glad that you have people there who support you and will write you beautiful letters of recommendation. Is that enough to consider leaving early? This place is toxic and I cannot believe that there wasn’t a shred of sympathy from Heather (I mean, I can, given all you’ve written about her, but in this case she just has zero humanity at all). A drink of water does not take away the breathtaking grief that your news gave you. I am a firm believer that infertility has a cumulative effect, and loss after loss, try after try, everything just gets harder. That karyotype is devastating, because in a weird way if it was abnormal it would be a REASON, instead of more murkiness. That karyotype carries with it the grief of all the previous losses and the uncertainty of the future. I can commiserate with feeling like the options in front of you seem more difficult than what is even remotely fair. I will never understand why there can’t be clear cut answers to this. Why good people have to make terrible and heavy decisions that others don’t even know exist. I hope that this weekend brings you peace, and that the people who love and support you will create a cocoon away from the awful people who just make everything worse. I am so sorry for the loss of your son. I am so sorry that you must make these choices and decisions and flow in a stream full of crap when it should be floating in a clear blue pool. Gagh. My heart goes out to you. I am thinking of you and hoping for peace.

    Reply
    • Clear blue pool…ahhh…that is nice to think about…

      Thank you so much for all of that, and I know your story, and I know you get that unfairness of the insanely difficult choices. What is going on? Really? Are we supposed to be able to see clearly in all of this murk?

      When I read your words, ” I am so sorry for the loss of your son,” it made me cry. But in a good way. It’s validating. It was a person, a boy. It’s too late now and that life is gone. It is a huge, huge loss.

      No, no reasons. Almost three years of this, and it is still all mystery, and no family.

      I think I need to leave all this. I think the time is coming. For the sake of my *own* life.

      Thank you for the peace, friend. xxoo

      Reply
  10. I wish I had words of comfort for you. I am just so so sorry for this loss. My heart continues to go out to you.

    Reply
  11. I’m new to your blog but want to tell you that I am sorry for this loss. I see so much of myself in your post. I wish I had words or actions to make what you are going through hurt less.

    I’ll definitely keep reading if you keep writing. Great resources at the top of your page!

    Reply
  12. I am so sorry for what you are going through. Keep writing. And I (and many others) will keep hoping for you even if you can’t hope for yourself anymore. Hoping for the future you deserve and hoping for peace in the meantime.

    Reply
  13. I think JK put it so perfectly in her comment above. Wishing you peace through all this pain. Please keep writing, you are incredibly good at it. XO.

    Reply
  14. I’m so, so sorry. About you losing your sweet boy, about all you’ve had to endure, and about the heavy decisions you have to make.
    You taking care of yourself is the most important thing to focus on right now. You deserve to be happy. Your boss sounds HORRIBLE and I can’t believe she treated you the way she did. I’m glad you have such supportive coworkers. The good news is, it’s very, very likely your next boss will be a thousand times better than her.
    I’m thinking of you, and wishing you peace and healing through this painful time.

    Reply
    • Oh, thank you. Heavy, yes. Too heavy for this girl. I want a free pass out of this mess.

      Horrible boss is now acting like the sweetest person ever, the typical pattern. Almost almost almost over.

      Tonight I would like a rest from sadness. But can’t seem to figure out how. Want peace very much.

      Reply
  15. This is some deep shyt.. You have been such an inspiration all along the with way with me deciding to pursue the donor egg route. I hate that you are having such a rough time emotionally and professionally. I believe you so deserve peace. Your blog also inspired me to start a blog of my own not on infertility but I am not here to talk about me. Whatever you decide to do we are behind you. I mean sometimes we think that a “woman would understand” but sometimes they are the ones making it harder for other women. I can’t imagine her not being compassionate for you. What is she going to do when you are gone? I wonder…but who cares! You may be stronger when you are away from that job. You won’t have to worry about “keeping a strong face” but you can just be you.

    Reply
    • Aw, thanks Cassi. I’m glad and really honored to be an inspiration…am struggling to stay inspiring, that’s for sure. You are so perceptive to say I might be stronger once away from the job—I think it is taking away all of my resources right now. Strong face—yes! That’s just it. I don’t want to do that right now. It makes me angry that I have to try to do that. Thank you for chiming in. xxoo

      Reply
  16. Kali

     /  November 20, 2013

    Hello, I am so sorry for your news. I want you to know that it very well could be something that doesn’t show up in a test. I was told that by the lab when I was going to test my remaining 5 embryos–from the donor that caused three simultaneous miscarriages in the recipients. I think it’s more important to know the donor’s history, whether she’s produced a live birth or any other miscarriages.

    I have also been walking around and feeling “gone”. And thank you for saying that temporary “I wish I was dead” thoughts are normal in extreme bouts of grief. I just had a bout Monday. My lining is not building up for the SECOND cycle in a row, when it was always beautiful before. My current doctor is of course not willing to try ANYTHING but estrogen. I thought it was the end of the road for me, because it seems obvious to me (from internet research) that the cause is some kind of infection from one of the two surgeries I had after my last m/c.

    I came home from work early, drank half a bottle of wine that a friend had left here, and did some bad drunk-dialing.

    Today, two days later, I’m more focused on how to move forward and solve this problem–but like you, I fear what happens if it’s unsolvable.

    You validate my feelings in every post, whereas my brother (unfortunate recipient of a drunk call) told me to “get help”. I see a therapist. Thanks Bro, he said he got that it would be like losing one of his girls, who are dear to me as well, so why the shock that I’m irrational for a day?

    Thank you again. Your blog is helping me. I think about starting one as therapy, and may have to o so–I’m not sure how to come out of the darkness either but if your blog is helping me, perhaps my own blog will also help me release some of my frustration and feelings.

    Reply
    • Thanks, Kali. I do know that in the other women, there was one BFN and one ongoing pregnancy. That’s what I know so far.

      God I am sorry about your lining. Have you gotten tested for an infection? Please keep me posted.

      Drunk-dialing is better than drunk-emailing or messaging—at least it is not recorded digitally forever and ever (not that I’ve ever experienced drunk-emailing myself, ohhhh noooo).

      Unsolvable. Yes. We feel the same. It leaves one speechless, doesn’t it?

      When people say you should “get help” they mean well but they are really undercutting your expression—it’s like when some jerk immediately hands you a box of tissues just when you begin to cry. Come ON. Evolve, humanity. When you hand us a box of tissues as soon as we start to cry, you are telling us: “It’s not okay to cry. Mop that up. Let me be the helper who fixes you.” And we don’t need to be told to get help just because we feel like we’re dying or want to die in that moment. It passes. It’s just an honest expression of the extremeness of the pain. My brother read a blog post from one of the IF blogs out there, one I sent to him, and he was silently worried about me for months, too—and it wasn’t even my blog post. No one understands—this stuff is dark. Of course we are going to feel dark at times.

      If you start a blog I’ll be your first follower. (:

      Reply
  17. I’m new to your blog. I’m learning we have a lot in common, venomous bosses, leaving our jobs, infertility, miscarriages, CCRM. Gosh, I’ve only been through two miscarriages and I’m a wreck. You are strong to have been through everything you have, and have made it on the other side.

    I wish I had some great words of advice for you but unfortunately I don’t other than be extra kind to yourself if you can.

    I’ll continue to follow your journey.

    Reply
    • Ooo, wow. I just looked at your blog—I want to follow it via email, how do I do that? I’d really like to ask you some questions about adoption. It’s great that you are setting yourself up on both fronts—I would like to do that, too, actually, because I used to always say I’d adopt someday, it’s just the whole time/money/energy thing, but mostly money/time thing. But I need to start investigating it in earnest. I just read this great post about adoption:
      ttp://www.bloglovin.com/frame?post=1927705843&group=0&frame_type=a&blog=3757979&link=aHR0cDovL2Fjb3Vyc2V0b3RoZWZpbmlzaGxpbmUud29yZHByZXNzLmNvbS8yMDEzLzExLzE5L2xldHMtYmUtaG9uZXN0LWp1c3QtYWRvcHRpbmctaXMtZWFzaWVyLXNhaWQtdGhhbi1kb25lLw&frame=1&click=0&user=0
      which was validating and informative. She is someone I would also like to ask more about adoption.

      I can’t believe this journey has become the most massive research project of my life!

      You left your job recently? I’ve got to read some of your posts tonight.

      Thank you for chiming in and for following, and for the kind words. I wish you so much goodness right back. This shit is hard!!!

      Reply

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