And I have to write about it.
I have been writing about everything else (and still need to write about some things), so it isn’t right in my mind not to write about this crappy part, too.
I know I will be okay. I know that I will be fine. I know that God knows me and my sorrows and joys and that He will lead me to a joyful place that I cannot imagine in my teeny tiny little human mind.
But today, I am not pregnant, and I’m not happy about it.
I have blogged about the difficulty of a failed IVF cycle before. Here. I reread it this morning, and it’s still pretty accurate. In fact, as I typed that last sentence, I got a text from my sister-in-law expressing her love and offering continued prayers, and I started tearing up. Am crying now. I need the love and prayers that are being offered. Because I’m sad and need someone to hold me up.
I am not quite hoping for time to stop. I can’t. I am a different person today than I was almost four years ago when I was dealing with the baby-less result of IVF #3.
Most notably, I am a mother. A thing that makes not being pregnant right now both harder and easier.
Easier because I have a wonderful son whom I love like crazy. I am not childless. I am not impotent. I have a little person who kisses and hugs and snuggles and laughs. I have a little person who needs me and won’t wait around for me to get over my heartache. I have to pick myself up and get moving instead of wallowing. Moving helps.
Harder because I know the amazing and wonderful things about being pregnant, about childbirth, of holding a newborn, of nursing. And I can’t have them again.
Also notably I am the breadwinner in our family. Dropping off the face of the earth for a couple of days is a luxury I can’t afford. So I work (after I write this). Working helps.
I know, like really know, that we were led to do this IVF cycle. I can’t deny that. I don’t know why, especially if this is the end result of it. But we were led here. It is good that we chose to try.
We found out yesterday that I’m not pregnant. We told our families. We got takeout.
A friend from church came over yesterday evening to help me with a sewing project I’ve been wanting to work on. We scheduled to have her come over before I knew the pregnancy test would be negative. (Obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked her to come over.) But I’m so glad she came.
We worked. She taught me. Let me figure some things out. We pinned. We cut fabric. We got stuff done.
At one point, she held up two pieces of fabric we had just cut and showed me that they were going to fit together pretty well. That we had measured and figured and cut things right.
It took EVERYTHING in me not to fall apart in front of her from the relief I felt. The elation at the thought that something I had had a part in doing would result in something. Even if imperfect, it would be something. Something instead of nothing.
That, to me, is the hardest part of a failed IVF cycle. Working so hard for so long and feeling like you have nothing to show for it. A negative pregnancy test and all that work feels meaningless. You accomplished nothing.
Of course, that isn’t completely true. Look at all I have written. Look at all I have learned. And so on.
But the intended outcome of an IVF cycle is a baby. Not a bunch of blog posts. If anything, the blog posts and learning and other accomplishments of this cycle felt along the way as part of all the work I was putting toward the hoped for result.
You know what I mean.
In the awfulness of yesterday, I felt like a failure. Like my best efforts – and I have given my very best to this cycle – amounted to diddly squat.
But then two pieces of fabric fit together.
I call it a miracle. A special miracle for my broken little heart.