deep down

My doctor called me today.  He knows that this cycle was it, and I think, on a personal level, he both understands and agrees with us on the “done” thing.

He asked me the hardest question he’s ever asked me: “Do you know that you did everything you could?  And I mean, do you know deep down that you did everything you could?”

I said yes.  But the real answer is “I don’t know”.  Maybe I could have found a different carrier.  Maybe I could have dictated which embryo to transfer that first FET back after BabyHope.  Maybe I could have convinced Mr. Hope to only transfer one during the fresh cycle.  Maybe.  That’s about the best I can muster.  Maybe.

His medical recommendation at this point would be carrier.  His personal one – I’m guessing it would be to agree with us.  That we’ve done an awful lot.  That another fresh cycle is a lot.  That finding a carrier is a lot.  And maybe all those “a lots” are too much.

And I know, deep down, that we have to be done.

I don’t want to be.  I didn’t expect, two years ago that is where we’d be.  I thought it would be easier this time.

But all it takes is conjuring the look on Mr. Hope’s face as I went into shock in the emergency room.  The look on my OB friend’s face as she held the sick bags, and the look on the nurses’ faces as they ran around with bags of fluids and starting IVs in each arm.  And, most of all, Mr. Hope scooping up the fortunately oblivious two year old so she wouldn’t see me writhing.  I doubt I’ll ever completely forgive myself that those moments even exist in our lives, even knowing that they aren’t my “fault”.

So I’m still left grieving.  Thankful that we got the one lucky strike, and stunned we didn’t get another.

We worked so hard.  Deep down, I know that.

~ by Larisa on November 14, 2010.

7 Responses to “deep down”

  1. OK, so the computer just ate my comment.
    I’m going to try again.

    You have worked hard. SO HARD. Ten transfers. An attempt with a surrogate. A near death experience. A stint at a crap job for some converage. My heart hurts just thinking about it–because I know you in real life, behind the blog, the real person with a real heart and a real life and a real desire…that can’t be fulfilled. Someone who reached out to me when I was in despair.

    I’m so sick of the unfairness. SICK OF IT.

    You know I’ll support any choice you make, I just wish you had THE CHOICE.

    Boy, I’m a real ball of sunshine eh?

  2. You did work so very hard, against so many obstacles. And the near-death experience, still takes my breath away to think of it.

    Knowing deep down that you gave it everything doesn’t relieve the grief, but it does make it the right decision. Such a tough one to make.

  3. I just want to let you know I’m thinking about you and my heart aches for you. As I usually read on my Google Reader, I am writing this while staring at photos of BabyHope to the left.

    She is beautiful.

    My heart still hurts for you though.

  4. I can’t say much more than what LastChanceIVF said. The unfairness of it all makes me impotent with anger for you.

    I am sending you hugs and love and all the good vibes I can muster.

    Love to you, sweetie.


  5. Sending lots of love your way. I’m so sorry, my heart is just broken for you and your family.

  6. I am so, so sorry. Really, truly sorry. I hate that you’re going through this.

    As someone who has walked a very, very similar road I will tell you that it does get better. Not right away, not for a good long while, but slowly, every so slowly, it does.

    I will never, ever forget what it felt like to have our one chance for a sibling turn into an exploding ectopic nightmare. I will never “get over” the fact that we are done with a capital D.

    But the pain does lesson. I don’t think about it as much as I did before. Yes, it still sucks. It’s still unfair. It always will be.

    I see friends who are fertile myrtles and still wish things were different for us. But I know that we’re ok as a family of three. Heck, we’re more than ok. It just makes me appreciate my miracle of a little man even more.

    I wish you peace and healing. Unfortunately neither happens overnight or even close, but I do hope that you will find your way there. Because I know how very much it all sucks.

    Thinking of you.

  7. Wow. You worked SO hard. I’m so sorry and wish there was something anyone could say or do. I hope time will make it easier.
    Thinking about you lots.

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