I’m afraid the last two weeks have created a perfect storm that has made the Christmas holidays just miserable. It doesn’t help that I find Christmas difficult even at the best of times. The long days leave me short on sleep, while staying at other people’s homes makes my joints ache painfully. After just a few days I can find my nerves frayed and nearly anything can push me over the edge.
Because we had the cancer scare back in October, our Clomid cycle was delayed a month. That means instead of finishing the Clomid at the end of November, our last cycle would finish just days after Christmas. I usually expect a short cycle with early spotting, but this time our hopes were raised by a long cycle and we found ourselves suddenly superstitious. For me, a believer in Murphy’s Law, I hoped the fact we had a new appointment booked with the fertility clinic would mean we’d get pregnant and thus need to cancel it. For Mr Goldfish, a film buff, he hoped this was our third act – where the characters get to their last chance and then everything works out perfectly.
By Boxing Day we’d finally had some spotting, but were hoping that this time it may be implantation. We’d been tempted to test, but were trying to be patient. While visiting my mother-in-law she received a phone call – Mr Goldfish’s cousin is 10 weeks pregnant. It stung, but I was all right as everyone fussed and gossiped. My brother-in-law commented how he always knew people were pregnant before they announced it. Did I remember how he’d known when I was pregnant? I just nodded and went back to my crochet.
I was fine for about an hour, until I had a small spat with Mr Goldfish. Though it was completely unrelated, suddenly I found myself on the edge of tears and I had to leave the room. It all came to the surface - It was incredibly painful to know that a woman I watched get married, just four weeks after I lost my pregnancy, would hold her child before I would. I should be holding a two month old, not sitting there with no hope.
Unfortunately my quick exit was noticed and my mother-in-law was soon at the bedroom door. She was very kind and understanding, but I hate breaking down in front of others.
By the time we came home on the 27th I was done with Christmas. There was no joy in my heart and the cheerful decorations mocked me. I immediately packed up everything other than the Christmas tree and a single Christmas wreath I’m quite fond of. Ridding my home of the jubilant nutcrackers and decorations, helped me pack away some of the pain.
Unfortunately my Christmas wasn’t quite over, the next day we were invited to a friend’s party. I stood in the outside doorway while everyone gathered around the two young babies. I wasn't avoiding the children as such, but desperately trying to avoid painful questions from the adults. Instead I was sneered at for being afraid to enter the "baby room" by a woman I barely know and I found myself fighting back tears. I retreated to the kitchen where my friend was putting the finishing touches on her meal. She asked how our Christmas had been and I said pretty awful. She asked why and just couldn't say the words – instead bursting into a flood off tears. For once luck was with me and no one else witnessed my breakdown, but I felt awful for spoiling her party.
I pulled myself together and wandered back through to the sitting room. Now the guests had spread out I hoped I could risk resting in a chair. As I sat down the same woman made another comment about how I was finally braving the baby room – in a way I wish I could have made a cutting remark that would stop her cold, but I’m not that type of person. Instead I smiled and kept my feelings tightly in check.
Finally after a goodnight’s sleep and a quiet day to myself, I am starting to feel better. I have my fertility clinic appointment in early February. It turns out that the nurse was wrong, and we weren’t discharged back in May. Instead the consultant has asked to see us again now we’ve finished the tablets. Our GP thought we would be happy that things were moving again, but instead we feel like we’ve lost something. The Clomid gave us our closest chance of a child, and now that chance is gone. From here on things are likely to be much harder.
This was originally published on the Emma's Diary Blog.