I haven’t been on here much at all recently, which is odd, considering it became the first thing I checked in the mornings and the last thing I checked at night, as well as the one thing I read on my rare dinnertime breaks. It’s not because now I’ve had +hpt that I think I don’t need to or want to or that everything is different now; I’ve become the proverbial ostrich.
I’m finding it hard. Really hard. Each day is feeling like a week and that viability scan in just five days feels like a lifetime away. Time doesn’t seem to be ticking at normal speed! I worked out I’d now be in my two-week-wait if the last cycle hadn’t worked out, and that makes it feel like time has stood even more still – I feel like I’m still in the two-week-wait, which is ridiculous. I daren’t even say the ‘p’ word still. Self-protection mode has well and truly kicked in and I go through the days almost in denial somewhat. I’m looking after myself, sure, I’m taking my prenatals and all, but until we hear some good news on Tuesday at 9am, I don’t feel like any of it is real or even positive at the moment.
That makes me sound selfish and heartless and insensitive. I know I said on a previous blog that so many thousands of women would like to be where I am right now. But to me, it’s like this: the happier or more excited I become, the higher I climb up a sheer cliff face. If it goes wrong, I’m higher up, further to fall, and not onto a grassy bank – grazes but no permanent damage, like the first miscarriage, where I genuinely believed it would be ok next time – oh no. I’m heightening myself to a level where if I fall, my entire body will be smashed to unrecognisable smithereens upon the harsh, jagged profile of the rock face. Why risk this when I could maybe just break a leg?
I can’t let myself get excited. I can’t look further than the moment I’m in right now. This could all go wrong at any second and how I would get through it all a fourth time, I have absolutely no idea. We need it to be good news. I need to to be good news. If it’s not, the drive back from the hospital will be unbearable and I cannot take it again. So many hours I’ve spent on that lonely road home with tears streaming down my face and sobs racking through my body – and I can’t take it. I feel like I should get them to scan me, let them say nothing, then when I’m in the safety of my home, phone them and ask for the results.
I’m terrified. No, I’m beyond terrified. I keep thinking that maybe it will be ok but there might not be, and I am dreading the words of, “I’m so sorry.” Because where do we go from there? There’s no explanation, nothing wrong with either of us, so nothing they can do.
People will say to think positively. I can’t. I’m just preparing myself. I always feel that if you prepare for the worst, then anything other than that is a bonus. I never used to be like this, but after all the experiences we have had to face over the last 2.5 years, I’ve changed beyond recognition and the joy and optimism I used to have has eroded to a very cautious, very careful lady.
The husband and I still high-five each time I feel ill. I feel utterly exhausted, very dizzy (vertigo ‘swoops’) and I’m constantly hungry. I actually feel pretty dreadful (I’m not moaning, by the way, I’m ECSTATIC about feeling rubbish!). But my boobs don’t ache as much, so of course, that plays on the mind.
I just like this one. I want to keep him/her. Until I see proper real evidence of teeny him or her, though, I can’t get attached to something that may be taken from me. I know I’ve done everything I can. It’s now just a case of waiting.
Roll on 9am, Tuesday.