Hope is one of the worst positive emotions there are. Hope fills us with the drive to keep going, but when things fail, oh how hard we fall thanks to hope's high. But it's almost as if hope is a part of us, built into us and is the whole "what if" that makes us want to try and try again because maybe the next time will be the right time. Hope is such an - pardon the generic expression - emotional rollercoaster!
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Just before Thanksgiving, we did our second transfer. All during the prep process, my body was responding great to the medications. All my numbers were great, my doctor said everything looked great internally and my embryo was a good grade. All signs pointed towards a successful transfer. And because there was really no reason why we should have lost the first fetus, this one was looking better and better.
I tried to not be hopeful with this transfer. I thought if I numbed myself to the emotions, to the excitement, to the hope, I wouldn't be disappointed if it didn't work out like our first transfer. It was just a procedure, just a typical probe, or something like that. Nothing really out of the ordinary. It wasn't a baby being implanted to hopefully grow inside me. It wasn't the possibility of our dreams coming true.
But, after 10 years, you can try to tell yourself all that, but hope still pushes through and whispers, "But, what if? Just maybe, this is the one! You could become parents with this embryo!" Hope is that little bitch that pushes through all your best-laid plans to remain aloof.
We got the news yesterday that this transfer didn't take at all. Damn you, hope! Like my husband said, at least this time we aren't finding out 6 weeks from now it didn't survive, but damn it still hurts. No matter how much I tried to not get my hopes up, they were. That small little voice had me thinking "This could be the one!" But it wasn't. Again. And I'm just so hurt and angry and distraught and bitter. And I'm still full of effing hope!
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I'm at work the day after The News. Life and work don't allow me to openly grieve. I'm forced to bottle it up and put on a smile and pretend all is ok, all while on the inside my heart is breaking and I don't feel like being around anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone, I don't want to deal with anyone. I most certainly don't want to go to my company Christmas party at the end of the week.
This time of year is maybe the hardest. Parents and children come in all the time, talking about their Christmas traditions and Santa Claus and what they want for Christmas and all their family stuff. The community is full of family-oriented events, and it just makes me want to yell out, What about us?! Why do we get left out just because we can't have a family? Because we aren't choosing to not participate. But we are still the anomaly and society doesn't cater to us oddballs.
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As much as that hope hurts right now, hope is what will keep us going. We have one embryo left, our unknown embryo. The one that didn't have enough DNA to be genetically tested. So this one will really be a chance. Do we take the chance? Do we hope for the best? Do we hope for our dreams to come true?
I only wish if this isn't going to work, if we aren't going to become parents, then I wish the want would go away. Because the want drives the hope, and the hope is killing me.
Photo cred: Photo by Ron Smith on Unsplash
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