I am so angry at this moment. I feel like throwing everything I can get my hands on, smashing things and crushing them into walls. I took some clothes that are waiting to be ironed out of their basket, whispered profanities to them because it was late in the evening and my husband was sleeping upstairs, and I threw them against the wall as hard as I could. And then I left them there overnight, all dyed and wrinkled, until I rather embarrassingly had to pick them up in the morning. I am so, so angry! I have a rage building up inside me.
As feared, after a horrible beta result—18.1 on 22dpo and 18 on 24dpo—I started bleeding on Monday, which was 27dpo or 5w6d. It is going to be a wonderful year…
I went to sleep that night and woke up a few hours later with horrible cramps. They made me cry and I had to get up to get the strongest painkillers we had. Funny enough, they were leftovers from my miscarriage back in April. It hurt a lot and I barely slept all night. I took the day off and spent it in bed. Meanwhile the hospital had rearranged my appointment to Wednesday, because it was no longer a pregnancy one but a gynaecological one. It is always good to rub it in just a little bit deeper. But at least I was able to see the doctor sooner.
Wednesday came and was terrible to me. My cramps were not that bad anymore. I had a couple of stabs and twinges that stopped me in my tracks, but I felt better. I was nervous to see the new doctor though, scared of what he might say. I arrived in the hospital on my own and well in time because I had to take the bus and wanted to make sure I did not miss my appointment at 12pm. There were ladies with husbands or partners all around me. Some with big bellies, some with new pregnancy booklets and doctor notebooks in their hands. While I was waiting next to two older ladies for our doctor, a couple sat down in front of me with one of those notebooks I am desperately after. They looked complacent, the lady all done up and dressed fancy, the man purposely casually suited, wearing a scarf and his hair all greasy with gel and combed to the back of his head. They were commenting on the time and sighing. The doctor seemed really busy and the appointments ran late. It was about 12.30pm and the lady before me from 11.45am had just been called in when the fancy woman got up, walked in just like that and went to complain to the doctor that she had her appointment at 12.30pm. He told her to wait and she went to sit back down again. The man put his face in his palms and sighed more. I secretly smiled. Serves them right, I thought.
The lady before me got out and said goodbye to me and my heart started racing. I was next, it was my turn. I was the 12pm one. No! Wait… Stop the racing. The couple got in before me. They smiled and got up. Almost forgot their booklet too! 15 minutes later she came out, all smiling and happy, the man in front of her, a school example of conceitedness, aimlessly moving his foot over a spot on the floor while having his hands in his pockets. Assertiveness for the win, right?
Then it was my turn. That heartbeat doubled in a second. I had taken my charts with me. Proof that I am not crazy. Proof of one clinical and five chemical losses. No, I do not want someone saying to me: ‘Maybe you just thought you were pregnant.’ Or that same person asking me after the poor beta result what had to be done, or if I just was not pregnant to begin with. That same person that is now 37 weeks and about to have her baby soon.
The doctor looked at all my charts. He looked carefully. He asked a lot of questions. He sighed at the charts with the positive HPTs as if he was hurting for me. And then he said: ‘I would suggest you stop doing all this for now!’ I looked at him, thinking: ‘What?’ He was serious.
I crashed. In that office. My eyes started watering and there was no way I was able to stop them. And then I cried and apologised like a lunatic the whole time. And he was understanding and nice and everything and I do not even remember more than half of what he said except for phrases that hang in my head and that appear like thoughtbulbs Homer Simpson sometimes has. With a gloomy voiceover. ‘Stop the charting… I am not trying to play this down… Stressing out causes hormonal imbalances… You cannot make a pregnancy… Do not think too mathematical… Do some exercise and try to relax… See me in three months…’
I got out the room and made my way back to the bus, only realising after seconds that I could hardly see. I had been trying to wipe my eyes so frantically inside the room that I had pushed my contacts from my pupils. I burst into a toilet, freaking out and moving my fingers all over my retinas only to find them shoved all the way out in some corners. I still do not know how I managed to get them out.
Once I got home, I crashed even more. I mean bawling like Iris in The Holiday crashing. I went upstairs, gathered all my tests and basal thermometer in a frenzy and chucked everything in the back of the bathroom cupboard. I never felt so alone at that moment. I felt completely abandoned by both hope and science. I still feel completely abandoned. I took the rest of the week off and I have been trying to sleep. Trying to sleep. I am so angry at the world, angry at everything. I have to give up the only controle I have over the one thing I truly want, leave things like that and no one here understands how difficult it is for me. Even if it is supposedly only for a few months. No one here understands how defeated I feel. How angry I am at everything and nothing. Not even my husband does.
What I gather from all this, is that I am to blame for all our early losses. Far worse, it is not my body that is inadequate, it is what is between my ears that is responsible. My every being, my thoughts, my delusions, the thing that makes me me, that is the culprit. I apparently do not have a hostile uterus, I have a corrupting mind.