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A hospital visit, a confession and a bombshell

It was early October.

On the morning that I turned seven weeks pregnant (according to my obstetrician’s dating scan the week before) I woke up with intense pain in my upper right torso.

It just so happened that a friend of mine was visiting Paradise and staying with me for a few days. And it further just so happened that this friend of mine was a nurse.

She was in the kitchen when I woke up, so I hobbled in there and confessed that I was pregnant and also in weird pain right below my ribcage.

She took me back into my bedroom, got me to lay down on the bed and examined me.

Based on my pain response, she said that the pain was isolated in my stomach and gall bladder region.

“Look I don’t mean to alarm you, but given pregnant women are more at risk of gall bladder attacks I think you need to go up to the hospital.” she said.

So I called in sick at work and then phoned my mother. She was driving to Paradise that morning anyway to have lunch with me, so she was luckily close-by.

She diverted to my house and picked me up, then drove me up to the local public hospital.

I was worried I was in for about a six hour wait just to be seen by a doctor in the emergency department, as is commonly the case when you visit a large public hospital.

When I arrived I was triaged by a nurse at the front desk. I explained that I’d had four previous pregnancy losses, was seven weeks pregnant and having bad pains in my upper torso.

To my surprise I was given priority care and within ten minutes I was wearing a hospital gown and had been given a bed in the emergency department.

The doctor who examined me confirmed that the pain was in my stomach and gall bladder, and ordered blood work and an ultrasound of my torso. I was then admitted as a patient of the hospital and made nil by mouth.

While the technician was scanning my stomach and gall bladder, we chatted and I told him all about IVF, my miscarriages, my husband leaving and my surprise miraculous pregnancy that may or may not be continuing. He was absolutely fascinated and even when he’d completed his task, he still kept me there chatting.

“Hey listen,” he said. “The paperwork here says I was only supposed to scan your upper torso, but do you want to have a quick look at your uterus too? I’m dying to see if you have a baby in there.”

Did I want him to do a quick scan of my uterus? Well…is the Pope a Catholic? I mean, yes. Yes I did.

He spread the cold gel onto my belly and I held my breath while he placed the wand across my middle.

The hospital’s ultrasound machine was brand new and significantly better quality than the little dinky machine in my obstetrician’s office. Straight away a fat little blob appeared on the large screen and I could clearly see the flicker of the blob’s heart. 

There it was. Undeniable proof I was still pregnant.

“Well you’re definitely pregnant!” The technician said, as if reading my mind. “I don’t see a second baby in there. But to be honest I’m not trained in pelvic scans so I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

When I was taken back to the ward, I was again visited by the doctor who told me that my stomach and gall bladder were clear of blockages or issues, and that his best guess was an aggressive bacteria in my stomach had caused the pain.

He wanted to keep me in overnight and give me antibiotics and morphine, but I asked to be discharged. Knowing there was definitely a little baby still growing inside me, I didn’t want to be putting anything unnecessary in my body – particularly hardcore painkillers. I promised to return straight to the hospital if I started feeling very unwell and the doctor reluctantly signed my discharge papers.

As my mother was driving me back home, I started vomiting. Luckily she had a bucket in the back of her car. It was pretty horrific.

Arriving at my house, my mother asked me if I wanted her to stay but I told her to go and I’d be fine. But unfortunately the vomiting continued all evening and all through the night. It was absolutely horrific and I couldn’t even put a swig of water into my mouth without being ill.

Early the next morning, while I was lying on the bathroom floor with my head resting on the cool tiles, James appeared in the doorway. He looked absolutely distraught.

“What’s the matter?” I asked through my exhaustion.

“Sadie I’ve figured it out.” He said solemnly. “I’ve figured out what’s been going on with you lately.”

I swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

“Wh-what do you mean?” I spluttered, sitting up.

“The constant doctors visits…blood tests…scans…you’re vomiting all the time…you’re moody…you were at the hospital yesterday.” He said, so upset he was almost crying. “I’ve figured it out and I know what’s going on here.”

Oh god. It was time to finally face the music.

“You have cancer!” he said, practically sobbing. “You’re dying aren’t you? It’s cancer!”

For about thirty seconds I’m pretty sure I sat on the bathroom floor staring at him like he’d grown a second head. How could a grown man be so…silly?

“What!” I finally gasped. “I don’t have cancer you idiot! I’m pregnant!”

More silence.

Much more silence.

He just stood there, eyes wide, gaping at me. And I sat, staring nervously back at him.

Then James let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Pregnant? Is that all? Oh thank God!” he said.

Well…that sure wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting.

He asked me a few questions about how far along I was, and why I hadn’t told him before that point. I explained that there was an expectation I was going to miscarry and I didn’t want to worry him needlessly, given he didn’t want more children. He actually thanked me for trying to protect him as long as possible.

He was extremely calm and I was extremely grateful. To be honest it was sort of a relief that James finally knew.

I told him that I had an obstetrician appointment in a couple of days, and that I would have more information to give him then. He accepted that and promised not to ask more questions or tell anyone until after my appointment.

Two solid days of vomiting later (turns out the illness I was suffering from was actually severe morning sickness!) I turned up for my appointment with Doctor Eminem. Given I’d seen the baby a few days earlier at the hospital and I hadn’t had any bleeding, I felt fairly confident my pregnancy was progressing.

Sure enough, when Doctor Eminem scanned me he confirmed that there was one baby in the gestational sac measuring perfectly based on my ultrasound the previous week. The baby had a healthy heartbeat of 163bpm. He printed off a photo and handed it to me.

A photo…of my baby.

The baby I was pregnant with.

Actually pregnant.

After the scan was over, we went back to his office for a chat.

“I don’t understand.” I said. “How is this happening? How is this possible? Eight cycles of IVF and then I was told I’d never have children?”

“You know what really bugs me?” Doctor Eminem asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. “When fertility doctors tell women it’s their fault.”

“What do you mean?” I replied. “I have proven infertility factors – endometriosis, PCOS, blocked tubes…”

“Yes and did the doctors focus on treating those factors? Did they perform surgeries, give you medications, perform IVF?” he asked.

“Yes…” I responded.

“And in all your years of trying, how long did doctors spend focused on your husband? My guess is he had a sperm analysis and not much else.”

He was right. It was only at the very end the experts had suggested genetic testing to look for a sperm problem and that’s when Doug had left me.

“You see Sadie you are suffering from reproductive problems but you are able to have children. Clearly your uterus is good and your eggs are good.” Doctor Eminem said. “The insurmountable factor – the one that meant you’d never have children – that factor was not yours. It was your husbands.”

Suddenly it was like someone had dropped a heavy weight across my chest and I couldn’t breathe.

“You’ve had unprotected sex with a new partner and fallen pregnant almost straight away. Why? Different sperm!” The doctor continued. “Because the reason you previously couldn’t have children was your husband’s sperm. Ultimately, you were not to blame. Your husband was to blame.”

It made sense. It made so much sense.

The reason IVF had failed was not my fault. It was my husband’s fault.

His sperm analysis had showed C and D grade sperm, but the truth was actually much worse. There was something genetically wrong with his sperm which had caused dozens of our embryos not to develop, and had caused me to miscarry several times.

My husband had left me because I couldn’t have children, but the truth was that he couldn’t have children.

HE COULDN’T HAVE CHILDREN.

I was in complete shock. Utter dismay and shock.

And also…secretly a little bit smug.

That douchebag had no idea that he’d blamed me for his own problem and it served him right.

Doctor Eminem asked to see me again in a week’s time to check on my pregnancy’s progress and I left his office on cloud nine.

I was finally really truly pregnant. Maybe this time I was going to be a mum. Maybe this time all my dreams would come true.

The baby looks good. Measuring on track. Heartbeat is 163bpm. I texted through to James.

A few minutes later my phone buzzed and I opened up James’s response.

Ugh no! Are you kidding! How have you not miscarried yet? What a bummer.

Good mood ruined, suddenly I felt so deflated. I couldn’t believe James had texted something so callous that clearly assumed we’d both been rooting for bad news.

Suddenly I had a terrible feeling this “dream” pregnancy was going to be more like a nightmare…

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Two or one or none…

I sat quietly in the obstetrician’s waiting room.

My mother, who had travelled from the city to attend the appointment with me, was sitting on my left.

Every other woman in the room had rounded and protruding bellies, which any infertile knows is pretty much the worst case scenario when it comes to doctor’s waiting rooms.

The instruction to “go home and wait to miscarry” had been followed, but the prediction had not come to fruition. Instead, I had endured eight days of solid excruciating menstrual cramping but nothing close to a period. Just bucket loads of clear, odourless discharge.

Clear discharge is common in early pregnancy because the mucus plug is forming, my brain cruelly whispered to me as I lay awake stressing each night.

Did I say stress? Well let’s not even mention the constant crying. Cooking dinner was cry time. Showering was cry time. Bed time was cry time. Lunch break at work was cry time. My anxiety levels were well and truly through the roof.

Every little thing had been harder. Sleeping, eating, working, especially taking prenatal vitamins even though the simple act of swallowing the tablet made me feel like a dickhead.

It was all so much harder because James, who was still occupying my front bedroom, had no idea what I was going through. My mother, who was my main support, was two hours away and none of my new friends in Paradise had any idea I was even infertile.

In reality, I had to remember I was lucky that this whiz-bang obstetrician was even able to fit me in for an emergency appointment at such short notice. I mean, it wasn’t a real emergency. Nobody’s cat was stuck up a tree, I just hadn’t started my period.

Sitting in that room, surrounded by smug pregnant woman (note: they probably weren’t smug) I realised suddenly that this was the first time I’d ever visited an obstetrician. I’d seen basically every other type of doctor, but the coveted prize of the obstetrician had always been outside my grasp. Or…my uterus’s grasp.

By the time my name was called, my protective shell was well and truly in place. To out-of-context quote Pink Floyd, I was comfortably numb. 

The obstetrician I met that day is someone who I’m going to call Doctor Eminem.

Not because he was a prolific white rapper from the wrong side of the 8 Mile Road, but because he was supremely meek and mild. Almost like a kitten wearing a lab coat.

Actually, after we left that day my mother said that he spent the entire appointment looking like he may burst into tears at any moment because there was just so much beauty in the world. You know, one of those types…

After Doctor Eminem called me into his office and shook my hand, he started flipping through the notes in my file while I sat on the other side of his desk nervously wringing my hands.

“Sadie I must say I’m extremely confused.” The doctor said. “Based on your previous history you shouldn’t be sitting here today.”

“I’m aware…” I replied. “Look, the truth is I was told to go home and wait to miscarry, but I’ve not yet had my period. This isn’t my first time at the miscarriage rodeo and I know the drill here. So if you could just confirm there’s no viable embryo and book me in for a d&C I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course.” Doctor Eminem said meekly. “Please follow me next door to the ultrasound room.”

I opted for an internal scan, as the external scan hadn’t even shown the sac the previous week. As predicted, he was the kind of doctor who apologised profusely right before he inserted the dildo cam. I was so nervous I couldn’t even look at the monitor.

“Okay I’ve seen it.” he said, after all of about three seconds.

Wait, that was it? A couple of seconds was all he needed to diagnose me?

“I see it too.” said my mother, who was standing at my side with her fingers digging into my bicep in some kind of supportive gesture.

“See what?” I finally asked, flicking my eyes up to the screen.

“The baby’s heartbeat.” Doctor Eminem replied.

The what now? The what? I’m sorry, the what?

Looking at the screen I could see that the gestational sac had grown larger, and that there were several blobs in there. The ultrasound machine wasn’t as new or fancy as the ones I was used to in the city and everything was slightly unclear.

“What am I looking at?” I asked, confused.

“Well it looks to me like twins.” Doctor Eminem said. “Here’s twin A and yolk sac, and here’s twin B and yolk sac. But only one has a heartbeat.”

He measured twin A (the one with the hearbeat) and announced that the baby was measuring 6 weeks and 2 days with a heartbeat of 122bpm.

“No that’s not right.” I said. “My hcg levels were 5500 ten days ago. I should be like…seven and a half weeks.”

“Well I’m going to hazard a guess that the reason the gestational sac was empty last week was because you’re only six weeks along now.” He said. “Twins would make your hcg levels higher than average.”

Next, the doctor examined twin B. It was measuring the same age, but as he’d previously stated it was without a heartbeat.

“I’m going to be honest with you Sadie and outline some different scenarios.” Doctor Eminem said.

First of all, there was the possibility that the second baby was just a few days behind developmentally. Normally the heart started beating at around six weeks gestation. That second heart may begin to beat very soon, although this was highly unusual as identical twins tended to develop at the same pace in early pregnancy.

Secondly, the unviable embryo would be reabsorbed back into the uterus. This was called vanishing twin syndrome. The healthy embryo would develop as a normal singleton pregnancy.

Thirdly, as the two embryos looked to be sharing a gestational sac, my body would recognise the need to flush the unviable embryo and I would miscarry both.

Doctor Eminem told me I needed to go home and wait again. If I hadn’t started bleeding, I should come back in ten days and he would scan me again to check on progress.

I couldn’t believe I’d been put into yet another high stress waiting situation.

Doctor Eminem could see I was visibly upset. “What can I do to make this easier on you?” he asked.

“Well the truth is,” I said. “Last time I miscarried only a couple of hours after seeing my baby’s heartbeat for the first time. I’m just sad I didn’t have any proof that baby existed, even though I saw and heard it’s heart.”

“I understand.” Doctor Eminem said empathetically. “Go and get your phone and we’ll do a recording of the heartbeat for you to keep.”

It was a perfect idea and I was so very grateful for his sweet suggestion. So my mother raced next door to his office and came rushing back with my phone.

Then he let the heartbeat play for about 30 seconds, while I kept the phone’s camera focused on the screen.

“Good luck Sadie,” he said as we ended the appointment. “I hope to see you again in ten days.”

And so began another torturous wait…

Go home and wait to miscarry

It was the morning after the night before.

I had driven back to Paradise after my positive pregnancy test, completely in shock and also sort of numb. I honestly didn’t know what to think or how to feel.

Focusing on the road stretched out in front of me, I mentally calculated timeframes.

The month of May was when we transitioned away from condoms. We’d only had unprotected sex once in May, but it was the week before I’d started my period.

We’d had unprotected sex twice at the start of June and several times right before I got my period. Never in the middle of the month.

In July, James had taken on a month long construction labourer contract back in the city so we hadn’t seen much of each other and only had sex sparingly. Maybe a few times right before I got my period.

In August, we started in a good place emotionally and had sex basically every night for the first two weeks. Then the arguing escalated and we’d had sex maybe once more before calling quits on our relationship.

August.

Had I conceived in August?

Had I conceived the very first month I’d had unprotected sex around the time a woman normally ovulated?

I mean…as far as every doctor had told me I didn’t even ovulate. And if I did miraculously ovulate, my tubes were too blocked for the egg to get through. And if the egg did get through a tube my endometriosis and high prolactin levels would kill off the embryo.

No pregnancy. No way. No how.

And yet…the little FRER stick tucked into my handbag said differently.

The first thing I did when I arrived back in Paradise was call to make an appointment with a local doctor. Thankfully, he said he could fit me in right when the clinic opened at 8.30am.

The clinic was next to a supermarket, so while I was waiting for 8.30am to roll around I went and bought a Clearblue Digital with a conception indicator. I figured it would give me a more accurate indication of what was actually going on, particularly as I’d used late evening urine with the original test.

Almost as soon as my urine hit the stick, the digital screen lit up with Pregnant: 3+.

Suddenly I began to question even my own timelines. Could I have conceived back in June or July and just continued to have menstrual bleeding? I’d definitely heard of it happening before.

Then I started making a mental list of all the non-pregnancy friendly things I’d done in the past month….

  • I had ridden my bicycle to work every day.
  • I’d guzzled green tea to try and lose some weight before summer arrived.
  • I’d had some alcoholic beverages the week before. Me! Someone who hadn’t drunk alcohol in years even while unsuccessfully trying to conceive! And ironically I had consumed alcohol whilst pregnant.
  • Ohhh I had taken Isaac to the theme park and ridden the rollercoaster all day. That couldn’t be good…

Finally the clinic opened and the doctor ushered me into his consultation room. I explained that I was unexpectedly pregnant, and gave a brief history of my infertility.

“Wait…” he started incredulously. “You asked a different doctor for the contraceptive pill and he’d told you not to bother? That is…super negligent. Really bad. I can’t believe it!”

It was the first time it had occurred to me how stupid that previous doctor had actually been. No one is ever one hundred percent guaranteed not to fall pregnant naturally unless they’re missing their womb, both tubes or ovaries. Sure my chances of not falling pregnant were 99.99% but that still wasn’t a guarantee.

The doctor ordered beta hcg blood work just to confirm I was actually pregnant. He put a rush on the test and told me he’d phone me in the afternoon.

Whilst having my blood drawn, I explained my situation to the phlebotomist. She was a young girl, maybe 23 or 24, with long blonde hair. She rocked back on her heels in shock.

“Get fucked!” she gasped. “No way! Get fucked! That’s amazing!”

Well…um…yep…that was definitely a concise way to sum up my situation.

I went home in a daze and sat in the kitchen waiting for my phone to ring. I felt like I had been transported back to the old days of waiting for the fertility clinic to call with embryo fertilization reports or hcg results.

“Why do you look so miserable?” asked James, coming into the kitchen to make himself lunch. “And why do you have medical tape on your arm like you’ve had a blood test?”

In that moment I instantly decided now was not the time to tell James what was happening. He had made it very clear right from the beginning that his son was enough for him and he didn’t want any more children. Not to mention the fact we’d broken up and he was currently looking for a new home to rent.

“I have the flu…” I muttered.

Thankfully he didn’t question me further, and chose to go back to watching television.

Finally the phone rang. It was the call I had been waiting for.

“Hi Sadie,” said the doctor. “Your hcg result was very positive. Your level is 5500. I’m going to suggest you’re at least 6 weeks along. But given your previous history, I need you to get an ultrasound as soon as possible so we can rule out an ectopic ok?”

I agreed. Of course I agreed. I was both scared and excited.

But I was also so confused. Was this actually going to happen? Was I actually going to have a baby? With a man I didn’t love? Where was my husband? Why couldn’t this have happened a year ago?

I remembered back to the hundreds – or maybe even thousands – of times that I’d prayed and wished and begged to have a baby. Maybe this was my own fault. Maybe I hadn’t been specific enough.

Do you remember that Brendan Fraser movie Bedazzled where the devil (played by Liz Hurley) grants him three wishes in exchange for his soul? And he wishes to be rich and powerful, with his girl crush Frances O’Connor as his wife? The devil grants his wish and makes Frances O’Connor his wife, except it turns out she hates him and is cheating on him? Because whilst making the wish he didn’t ask for her to love him only to be married to him.

Do you get what I’m trying to say here? Maybe instead of just wishing for a baby I needed to wish for a baby with my husband. This whole thing was happening in such a messed up way because I hadn’t been careful enough in my wishing.

Two agonising days later, it was finally time to get my scan done at the clinic.

Once again, I explained my history to the sonographer and told her that I’d probably had hundreds of pelvic ultrasounds so I would know what I was looking at. She seemed quite stunned by that.

After I got undressed and sat up on the table, she placed the ultrasound wand on my pelvis, pressing down onto my overfull bladder.

My eyes were keenly glued to the screen across the room. Looking…waiting…

She moved the wand left and right, digging further into my bladder.

Blank. The screen was blank.

“There’s no gestational sac.” I said matter-of-factly.

I’d been pregnant several times before and knew this drill too well. Pregnancies didn’t go well for me. This was the expected outcome. I was in comfortable territory. I knew the deal. I could cope with this. Right. Okay. I was going to be 29 years old with 5 pregnancy losses under my belt. Fine.

“We’d better get you to empty your bladder and do an internal scan.” the sonographer said. “With levels at 5500 two days ago and the uterus empty, we need to check your tubes immediately.”

As soon as the internal scan began, a small sac popped up on the screen smack bang in the middle of my uterus.

“You see that?” the sonographer asked.

“Yeah I see it.” I nodded. “I don’t see a yolk sac or a fetal pole though.”

“No.” she agreed. “The sac is very small and it looks like it’s empty.”

She called a doctor into the room, who confirmed her diagnosis.

“I’m really sorry.” he said. “My best guess is that this is a blighted ovum. With your levels as high as they are, we really should see something bigger than this. My advice is to go home and wait to miscarry.”

“Okay.” I said calmly. “And what if I don’t start bleeding?”

“If you haven’t started bleeding within a week, I’ll need to schedule you an emergency appointment to see one of the best obstetricians at the private hospital.” said the doctor. “He deals with complicated cases like yours. You will probably need a d&c.”

That night, I was sitting in the living room watching tv with James when his phone rang.

It was his sister, Sharon. She and I were friends, and it was in fact at her Halloween party where I’d met James in 2014.

“Hey James put me onto speaker phone!” I heard her shout down the phone.

As soon as he complied with her request and placed the phone on the coffee table between us, she started shrieking excitedly.

“Guess what James! Guess what Sadie!” she screamed. “We’re having a baby! We’re pregnant! I’m going to be a mummy!”

My heart dropped into my stomach. It was the jolt of emotion that I badly needed to knock me out of my numb stupor.

Sharon’s child would have been my child’s cousin. They would have been the same age. Grown up together. Been best friends. Sharon and I would have gone through our pregnancies together.

As soon as she hung up, the flood gates opened. I just cried and cried and cried.

James, assuming I was upset because I am infertile, came and sat beside me and quietly hugged me. He kept telling me over and over that it was all right to be sad about the fact Sharon was pregnant and I couldn’t have kids. He kept telling me it wasn’t my fault.

I just couldn’t tell him the truth.

That I was mourning for another lost dream. Another hope dashed. Another failure. Another chance at happiness.

All I had to do now was make it through the next week.

At the end of a week I would have a more clear understanding of my future.

By that time, I’d either have miscarried already or I would be on my way to see the obstetrician who could give me some real answers.

Little did I know, it would be the longest week of my life…

To be continued! Hoorayyyyyy……

 

 

 

 

 

 

The one where Sadie gets her “groove” back (part two!)

Sorry for the delay in updating, the Christmas holidays got the better of me.

If you want to catch up on part one of my story before you read part two, you can read it here.

Otherwise, strap yourself in because part two is super choppy and actually has nothing to do with me getting my groove back…

___________________________

We were lying together in bed one night, James and I.
 
It was very late, the lights were off and I was very nearly asleep. Suddenly he sat up.
 
“I can’t do this anymore.” he said.
 
Groggy and confused, I reached over and switched on the lamp.
 
“Can’t do what?” I asked.
 
“I can’t be with you.” he said. “You’re very pretty and very nice. But it just doesn’t feel right. I’m just not that into you. I can’t pretend I am when I’m not.”
 
For a second I thought he was joking. After all, he’d been so intense during our short relationship. He had brought his son into my life. We’d spent Christmas together. What the hell was he talking about?
 
My next thought was that I’d just started feeling healthy again after my husband walking out on me. I wasn’t going to put up with any nonsense from anybody else ever again. Not him, not anybody.
 
So I started screaming at James. Told him in no uncertain terms I was too good for him anyway and didn’t have time for losers like him. Told him to get the hell out of my house. Grabbed his clothes from my wardrobe, his toothbrush from my bathroom and marched him downstairs in the middle of the night to my front door.
 
Once he was gone I didn’t even cry. In fact I was kind of glad that I could get back to my intense self-imposed gym schedule without feeling guilty that I should be spending my time with him instead.
 
The next morning he texted me very early to say he was sorry. I angrily deleted the text. My friend had been right – I didn’t have room in my life for any more Willy Wonkas.
 
My beloved house was on the market, my financial future was still in the hands of my divorce lawyer and I had better things to worry about than some stupid boy that I’d only been seeing for a couple of months.
 
I told all my friends what James had done and they all agreed wholeheartedly that he was basically the scum of the Earth. He’d even formally met my parents! You don’t meet a girl’s parents then ditch her like that.
 
48 hours later he turned up at my doorstep begging for forgiveness. He said he felt like he’d made a terrible mistake. It was just that after his own divorce and the fact he didn’t get to see his son very often, he felt like he wasn’t ready for anything serious. He’d rushed into things.
 
“Anything serious?” I scoffed. “Do you think I’m ready for anything serious? I’m still going through my separation! At least your divorce was finalised a long time ago!”
 
“So could we try again?” he asked hopefully. “Just…not so serious? Like maybe…friends who date each other and sleep together…but aren’t…committed?”
 
“If you’re suggesting we sleep with other people then no.” I said firmly. “I’m not interested. I don’t want to catch anything nasty.”
 
“Okay I agree.” he said. “We could be exclusive…but not committed?”
 
“Fine.” I said. “Whatever works.”
 
And thus began the most bizarre relationship I’ve ever been a part of.
 
Suddenly I felt like I’d been thrust into a Taylor Swift song. We were together, we weren’t, we were together, we weren’t.

He’d be super committed for a few weeks then panic and back right off. He’d call me up and tell me he still wanted to be with me and we were back on again. Even though my friends were telling me that this whole thing was silly and we should never, ever, ever get back together…
 
Whilst I was dancing the ridiculous relationship tango, other parts of my life started to change dramatically as well. 
 
One day I received a phone call out of the blue from a large organisation based in a seaside town about 2 hours outside the city where I live. It was a lovely regional hub, and had the atmosphere of a friendly town with the infrastructure and services of a small city. Let’s just call it….Paradise.

Doug and I had always planned to move there to raise our family but good jobs in the area were very hard to come by. I’d gone for a job interview there many moons ago and ended up coming in second from a pool of over 300 candidates. 
 
The caller on the other end of the phone was the manager of the same organisational department where I’d applied for the original job. She said that a different job had popped up and as I’d come second last time she really hoped I would apply. She even said she’d send through key information on the job which would give me a competitive edge in my interview.
 
Honestly I thought the whole idea was perfect. Paradise was close enough to the city that I could still regularly travel home to see my family, but far enough away that I would never have to worry about running into Doug in the grocery store or at the cinema.
 
The money was incentive too. Years ago I worked in a high stress high paid job, but I’d given it up prior to starting IVF and taken a $30,000 annual pay cut in order to work in a low stress environment and help our chances of conceiving.  It was never an issue as Doug’s hefty salary made our lives more than comfortable.
 
But going through the divorce on my lower wage, it meant I was left completely broke trying to pay the bills and mortgage. This new job would be a $15,000 increase on my current annual salary. It would mean I’d still have to carefully budget and watch every penny, but I would be much better off financially and have a chance to apply for further promotions at the company in the future.
 
Not to mention the housing market in Paradise was amazingly better. In the city, the money I received from my divorce settlement would be enough to possibly afford the deposit on a small two bedroom apartment. But for the same money in Paradise I could easily put down a deposit on a large house with a decent sized garden for the dog.

It would be a lot of space for just one person, but make the transition out of my dream home much easier and I could always get in a few people to rent the extra rooms.
 
Plus…I mean…who doesn’t want to live on the doorstep of some of Australia’s nicest beaches?
 
After agreeing to apply for the job, the process actually happened very quickly. In a matter of days I was signing a contract and resigning from my old job. I told my family and friends, who were all a little worried that I was isolating myself too far away from them, but at the same time excited for my big change.
 
The hardest part was telling James I was leaving. Or…so I thought.
 
“Great!” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve always loved it in Paradise. Let’s go!”
 
I stared at him blankly. “Wait…what?”
 
“Well I’ll quit my job and move with you!” he said, as if this was somehow an obvious option.
 
“You want to…move in together?” I asked, perplexed.
 
“Well sure!” James said. “But I’ll have my own bedroom wherever we live so that it won’t feel like a serious relationship.”
 
The idea sounded wacky as all hell and there was also the obvious problem of maintaining custody weekends with James’ son, not to mention he had no job prospects once he arrived in Paradise.

But James was determined the move would be a fresh start in life for him and a chance to get out of truck driving. And secretly, I liked the fact I wasn’t going to be totally alone in a new place…
 
Two weeks later I was settling into my new job. The team in my new department were all lovely. It was an all female team (surprisingly with no bitchiness that I could see!) and everyone was a fair bit older than me. But everyone was so nice and I made friends very quickly.
 
I had one minor heart attack when my supervisor dropped my ex mother-in-law’s name during conversation and it turned out they were friends. But other than that, my life was pretty chilled out and living with James was pretty effortless.
 
A month after moving, my divorce settlement came through and a week after that I’d bought myself a new house.

Modern and surrounded by quiet bushland, the house was built only eight years ago with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a good sized yard, two living rooms, double garage and a huge leafy park directly opposite where all the neighbourhood kids congregated every day after school.

It was ten minutes from the beach but only 1.5 kilometres (0.9 miles) to walk to work each day. There was even a dedicated flat walking path that would take me straight there.
 
It was no palace. The house had been a rental for its entire eight years, so some internal walls needed patching and it needed painting inside and out. The carpets in the bedroom were worn and also needed replacing. But it was mine! It was a house nobody could ever take from me. I was very proud of it.
 
James was amazing. He moved all my furniture and boxes to the new house. Then he helped me pick paint colours, and while I was at work each day he painted every internal wall, the entire outside of the house and even built me new fences so the dog couldn’t escape. The only thing I needed to source was someone to lay new flooring in the bedrooms. Within two months the house was looking brand new again.
 
Plus, our relationship had never been better and James even told me that he loved me. Everything was coming up Millhouse.
 
I held a housewarming/birthday party when I turned 29. James organised the whole thing and I had so much fun. Surrounded by friends in my new home I felt like a whole human being again, even though it was my first birthday in over 10 years without my husband.

When it was time to blow out the candles on my birthday cake, James’ 4 year old son Isaac asked me to pick him up so we blew out the candles together. It was an incredible feeling to finally be able to blow out the candles on a birthday cake with an excited little boy nestled on my hip, even if he wasn’t mine to keep.
 
It was when the crazy busy house renovating stopped, the boxes were unpacked and I’d settled completely into my job that things with James started to go really badly.
 
Four months after moving he still didn’t have a job and wasn’t really looking for one. He would sit on my couch all day in his underwear, watching tv and making a huge mess (which he never cleaned up!). It was absolutely maddening.
 
Then he became lazy and started skipping his custody weekends with Isaac because he couldn’t be bothered driving back to the city to collect him. As you can imagine, I found it very upsetting that I wasn’t able to see my favourite little guy very often.
 
As if things couldn’t get any worse, one night James agreed to do IVF with me (in a sperm donor capacity) so that I could try once more to have a child of my own. My parents even said they would lend me the money for the fertility treatment.

I was ecstatic and booked an appointment to see a fertility specialist in Paradise. Then, the day before the appointment, James changed his mind and said he couldn’t go through with it anymore. I was left devastated.
 
A few weeks later, we patched things up. Things were fine for about a month. Until I found out that at the beginning of our relationship, back when we were still living in the city, he’d slept with another girl behind my back. A girl who had the same name as me. Can you say ewwww!

He argued that it was perfectly fine because it was only one time, he’d used protection with her and we hadn’t yet agreed to be exclusive. But it still made my blood boil that he’d hidden it from me.
 
It especially made me mad because we’d been having unprotected sex for months. After sleeping together for a while, we noticed I seemed to have a mild allergic reaction to condoms so I’d gone to the doctor and asked for a prescription to the contraceptive pill.

The doctor had actually laughed at me and told me I didn’t need the pill because I’d never get pregnant naturally. But nonetheless, we’d ditched the condoms and been unprotected. I angrily made James get an STD test to make sure he hadn’t given me anything. Thankfully it was clear.
 
But James turned into a verbally abusive monster. He told me he hated my beloved dog and hoped he died, thought I was a stupid uptight snob and wasn’t worth the effort.

Finally our constant arguing got the better of me. He told me he didn’t love me at all, I told him I hated him and needed him to move out of my house within the coming weeks.

Honestly I was so upset that I felt sick and even started vomiting, which was unusual for me. But I also knew that my period was due and judging by the intensity of my menstrual cramps it was going to be a huge one. So I didn’t think much of it.
 
Trying to make the most of the little time I had left with Isaac, I took him to the local theme park and we rode the kiddie rollercoaster all day. Then we rode our bikes all around town. Saying goodbye to him, knowing it was probably the last time, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
 
That weekend I drove into the city to have dinner with my mum and put some distance between myself and James. I told my mother how I’d been so miserable it was making me sick and nauseated.
 
“Nausea, hey? You should take a pregnancy test.” she said nonchalantly, taking a bite of her chicken.
 
“That would be a waste of $12.” I scoffed. “You know I can’t get pregnant. Besides, I’ve had horrible cramps all week.”
 
But after dinner my mother drove to the supermarket and purchased a test herself. I was cranky and most certainly not a willing participant.
 
“Just take it.” she said, handing me the box. “At least then you’ll know.”
 
“This is so stupid Mum.” I snapped. “As if I don’t have enough to be sad about lately, without you reminding me I’m horrendously infertile.”
 
Yet to appease her, I stormed off into the bathroom and locked the door. I could hear her hovering just on the other side of the door, like the meddlesome parent that she was.
 
Sighing, I ripped open the FRER package and followed my old routine. I turned the test face down so I didn’t get pee in the results window, did my business and then quickly flipped the test the right way up so I could leave it to sit for 5 minutes on the floor and wait for the lonely little control line to appear.
 
Strangely when I turned it over, the control line was already there and super thick even though it had only been a few seconds. Except I noticed straight away that it was on the wrong side of the window.
 
“The freakin’ test is faulty.” I called through the door to my mother.
 
“What do you mean?” Mum called back.
 
“There’s only one line in the results window, but it’s the pregnancy line not the control line.” I explained.
 
Suddenly I realised what was actually happening and I burst into tears.
 
“Why are you crying?” my mum asked, banging on the door. “What’s going on in there?”
 
But I didn’t even have the ability to form words to respond. I just kept staring at that test.
 
Sure enough, after a minute or so, a super faint line appeared on the control side.
 
It was a reverse squinter.
 
In other words, my hcg levels were so high that the pregnancy line had sucked all the pink dye across from the control line.
 
After years of trying and failing to conceive, multiple surgeries, 8 cycles of IVF, 3 pregnancy losses, an ectopic pregnancy and my husband walking out on me because I couldn’t have kids…I was pregnant.

Pregnant naturally.
 
No wait, I was pregnant accidentally…to a man I’d just ended a relationship with.
 
To be continued…..(again)
 
 

The one where I become athletic…

Okay I’m back and ready to divulge more! Where should I pick up the story of my life? Oh gosh I feel like an old lady writing my own autobiography…so many choices…

Let’s dedicate this post to my health because after telling quite a negative story last time, I will be able to focus on some positives!

As I mentioned last year, the month after my ex-husband left me I was devastated when I ovulated for the first time in my life. It was like the Gods or Mother Nature or Tom Cruise’s alien rulers were playing some kind of cruel cosmic prank on me.

But looking back on it, I know now that I ovulated because I’d shocked my body into action. When my ex walked out on me I lay in bed for a week like a zombie not eating or sleeping. I lost 5kg within the first 10 days through pure misery. I honestly think my body was just confused and malnourished and ovulated accidentally.

Not that it mattered because my Fallopian tubes were still blocked as blocked could be. But it still hurt. I felt wounded by my own body yet again. I was only focused on the ovulation and no other aspect of my health.

After I recovered from the initial shock of my ex’s departure and returned to work, a few people stopped me in the hallway and commented that I was looking great. When people said these things to me I was stunned and unable to process their sentiment. Great? I was looking great? I was going through the worst crisis of my entire life. I hadn’t slept for days. I’d eaten half a sandwich two days ago and nothing since. Why were people telling me I was looking good when I had never felt worse?

A week or two later I entered a new phase of recovery. And when I say recovery, I mean that I became focused on my husband returning to me. A focus which predominantly involved my weight.

In the months leading up to the end of our marriage my husband had been telling me repeatedly that I was getting fat. It was true. I put on 16kg during our 8 cycles of IVF. But he told me that the emotional eating and IVF and miscarriages had made me overweight and ugly. He repeated it again on the night I left – telling me I was no longer attractive.

Suddenly I had this light bulb go off inside my head. Clearly I was losing weight because people kept telling me I looked good. If I could focus my energies on losing weight and becoming more attractive surely my husband would return to me!

On the night he left me, I weighed 81kg (179 pounds) and was so deeply ashamed of my body. Mostly because he told me that I should be.

So I started dedicating myself to healthy eating and the gym. I’d go to the gym in the morning, eat like a Victoria’s Secret model during the day (think lettuce, people! Lots of lettuce!) and then go to the gym in the evening after work.

I started off walking slowly on the treadmill for 15 minutes a night, then jogging for a while, and then one day without realising it I was running for an hour at a time. Hello, fitness!

It didn’t take long at all before my clothes were hanging off me. My skin cleared up, my eyes were bright and shiny and everybody I knew was noticing my weight loss. And when I say everyone, I especially mean men.

I’d been so out of the loop with guys trying to pick me up because I’d been dedicated to just one man for so many years. But suddenly all these men were coming out of the woodwork to show their interest in me. Of course I wasn’t interested in any of them, but it was nice to know that perhaps I wasn’t as unattractive as my ex told me I was.

It was around this point that I stopped writing in my blog because I reached a very low point in my recovery. The darkness was consuming me and I felt I was losing the battle.

But when I turned the corner, and started fighting for myself and climbing out of the hole in which I’d sunk, I had another shocking revelation. I was losing weight and improving my fitness for all the wrong reasons. Why was I trying to impress someone who had left me behind? Who had not loved me unconditionally? Who had called me awful names and hurt me so badly? Who had left me right after we lost a baby and I needed him most?

I realised that I needed to do this for myself. To become a whole person again. To feel good about myself and love myself. I needed to take charge of my own health.

So I changed my perspective again. I stopped eating lettuce and started eating a healthy, balanced diet full of fresh fruit and vegetables. I changed my workout plans at the gym to incorporate a lot of weight lifting to improve my muscle strength and tone. I suddenly found myself enjoying something. I couldn’t wait to get to the gym every day. I enjoyed legs day, arms day, core day, cardio day.

Every aspect of fitness was fun. And if I woke up the next morning in pain, I loved that too! It was a healthy and constructive pain. A physical reminder that I was improving myself, not the mental anguish that I’d lost everything I loved and cherished.

And at night time when I lay awake at 2am and felt the hysterical crying begin, I would get up and put my gym clothes on. Thankfully I belonged to a 24 hour gym, so it was a haven that was always available to me. I would hop in my car bawling my eyes out and cry all the way to the gym. Then I’d put my headphones on and listen to angry music and workout for an hour then sing along to the radio all the way home again. Sure I still wasn’t sleeping, but the insomnia was manageable.

Within 5 months of Doug leaving, I had dropped from 81kg (178 pounds) to 65kg (143 pounds) which I was pretty happy with once I factored in the significant amount of muscle I’d added to my frame. I was toned and down three dress sizes.

By Christmas time last year I was down to 61kg (134 pounds) for a total weight loss of 20kg (44 pounds). I wasn’t stick thin but I was fit. I’m not going to go as far as to say I was happy (because I’m not going to pretend I didn’t still miss my husband) but I felt like there was meaning in my life.

I enjoyed food – as long as it was healthy food. I liked how I looked. I wasn’t ashamed of my body for the first time in years. I would wear tight clothes and not feel self conscious. I would wear my bikinis at the beach.

People kept stopping me and asking me what my secret was. I told them my secret was dedication. Everybody kept telling me how amazing I looked and congratulating me on my success. And you know what? I felt like I deserved their praise.

And even more miraculous, my hormonal acne completely cleared up and my reproductive cycle regulated itself for the first time ever. After going from sporadic periods with cycles ranging from 14 days to 100 days, at one point not having a period for almost THREE YEARS, I was getting my period every 30 days.

I could actually pinpoint in my diary the approximate day I was going to get my period and plan my life accordingly. It was just fantastic. I was loving it! Even if I wasn’t loving the fact that suddenly I was having my period every month after seeing it so sparingly for most of my adult life…

So there you have it. A positive story. I turned my life around in a meaningful way.

I can’t even tell you how much health and fitness managed to lift me out of my depression. It gave me drive and purpose and goals. It just made me a better person.

I don’t have a photo of myself at my heaviest because I was too ashamed to be in photographs, but here’s one from when I was around 75kg and then another as I improved my fitness.

Sorry about the weirdness of blocking my face out. Don’t feel safe enough to “out myself” on a public post just yet…

image

image

I was so proud of myself for achieving something good in 2014. After losing my last pregnancy, my husband, my home and my friends I really had no expectations that anything good would happen to me at all. But I created goodness for myself and that makes me even more proud.

I promise I’ll update again soon!

Love,

Sadie xx

ps if anyone can tell me how to get rid of the double post I’d really appreciate it! I hit publish twice then sent the duplicate to the trash but I still see both?! 😦

A free ride when you’ve already paid

It’s just past 1am.

Still hours until I expect I’ll fall asleep, even though I have to be up at 7 for work.

But tonight has been a very bad night. Tonight may have been the roughest night for me since I first chose to get out of bed in the days after my husband left me.

I have been solidly crying for over five hours now. My brother is working the night shift at the hospital and my parents are away on vacation so there is genuinely nobody around me at this time. I have to face this on my own.

Do you remember about a week ago my husband told me that he was having the internet service disconnected at our home? Well he had informed me that he would not require the modem. He told me to keep the modem and have new internet connected to the property in my own name. How very gracious of him.

Disregarding the fact I can’t afford internet right now, I was actually extremely relieved that in the future when my circumstances have (hopefully) improved I will not need to worry about purchasing a modem. It was going to be one less thing to stress about.

But this afternoon at 4pm he texted to say he would be requiring the modem after all, and that I would need to leave it in the letterbox for him to pick up.

Just like that.

This man, who claimed he would love me until he took his last breath. This man, who earns a ridiculous wage and drives around in a luxury company car while he chats on his company phone. This man was demanding I hand over a little plastic modem to him.

So that really shook me. Coupled with the fact I haven’t much slept in weeks, I didn’t deal with the news very well. It was something inconsequential, but just awful enough to properly upset me.

But to make matters much worse, I had one of those moments tonight where something incredible dawns on you. An epiphany. An ah-ha! moment.

You see, for days now I have been bloated and noticing a lot of egg white cervical mucus. I never get EWCM because I am anovulatory.

Then yesterday I caught myself feeling a little frisky for the first time since my husband walked out. The feeling really surprised me, even though it passed quite quickly.

Finally, after I had been crying for about half an hour this evening, I became acutely aware of a strong cramping on my lower right side.

“Oh great,” I sobbed. “Now my right ovary is joining the party. Can’t I even catch a break here?”

And then it hit me like a tonne of bricks.

I am on day 15 of my cycle.

I am ovulating.

I. Am. Ovulating.

I am ovulating on my own, without any sort of medical intervention, for the first time in my entire life. Let that sink in for a moment. The first time in my entire life.

And where is my husband?  He’s gone, baby, gone. Oh the glorious irony.

How could this be happening to me? Why is my body doing this? It had years to cooperate, but it never once came to the party. I feel like this is a disgusting, cruel joke.

And so I just lost it. I cried and cried and cried. The fact I am ovulating is truly devastating to me. I have wanted this terribly for the past 3 years and it has finally happened the month after my husband leaves me. Seriously?!

You’d think I could cry myself to sleep by now, but apparently whilst my reproductive system is becoming functional my brain is still being stubborn.

I desperately wanted to phone my husband and say “Darling guess what? I’m ovulating! Can you believe it?”

My infertility was something very private that we shared mostly with each other, so naturally he is the person I wanted to share this news with. I wanted to tell him so badly. So badly. But obviously that isn’t an option, so instead I’ve just sat here and sobbed hysterically.

I hate my body. Hate, hate, hate, hate. How could it do this to me now? How? This is not the time for ovulation. Please just give me a friggen break from my friggen life!

So often I wish I could wake up from this nightmare. But then I remember that if you want to wake up from something you first need to fall asleep.

Well, shit. Looks like I’m going to be here a while.

Dorothy Mantooth and my husband are both saints

Just fair warning…this blog post is kinda sweary. Okay, very sweary.

Why? Because this last fortnight has been absolutely fucking awful. One of the worst periods of my life. Just really, really bad.

In fact, you might want to skip this post if you don’t want to read an extremely long, angry and rambling diatribe from a disturbed young woman.

My problems are mainly down to this new drug I’m taking – ethinyloestradiol. It’s the medication we’re using to plump up my uterus lining in preparation for my FET. Before my last FET we used progynova and that medication did the job without causing me massive dramas. But ethinyloestradiol appears to be my kryptonite. It is the devil’s drug. The devil’s drug I tell you!

First of all the nausea is ridiculously bad. I couldn’t really keep any food down for the first couple of days, but after that my body acclimated somewhat and the vomiting stopped. But the nausea has certainly persisted.

It is particularly bad when I’m driving, sort of like bad motion sickness. It means I’ve been late for work a whole bunch of times the past fortnight because the nausea overwhelmed me and I had to pull over onto the side of the road until I could swallow and breathe normally.

When I mentioned to my doctor that the nausea was really bad on this drug she looked at me like I was some sort of moron and told me that if I couldn’t handle the nausea caused by estrogren maybe I shouldn’t be trying to get pregnant, because when you’re pregnant, you get nauseous a lot.

That comment made me angry. Really fucking angry. Because I’m not an idiot. I am aware that pregnant women experience nausea. Also because I am not forking out my entire life savings in an effort to get pregnant, I am forking out my life savings in an effort to have a child. Notice the subtle difference there? Pregnancy is a means to children.

I know pregnancy can be shitty. I know you can be sick a lot. But I don’t care. I honestly don’t! If I have to vomit everything I eat for the next nine months I do not care.

And the nausea you experience during pregnancy is a little different to the nausea you experience because of a medication. It says on the damn pill bottle to tell your doctor if you have persistent symptoms. So why is it a problem that I mentioned my persistent symptom to her?

I mean honestly I took her comment as a subversive threat. I feel like she does this a lot now. I tell her about a problem I’m experiencing, she tells me how life is much harder when you’re pregnant/a mother and then looks at me weird and kind of suggests maybe I shouldn’t be doing IVF.

And I take it as a threat because I feel like she is going to cancel my cycle due to my honesty in describing my physical and emotional responses to IVF. Like OH I’M SORRY I AM VOMITING IN THE FRONT SEAT OF MY CAR LET’S MAKE THAT MY FAULT AND DENY ME CHILDREN BECAUSE I SIMPLY MENTIONED IT TO YOU.

And plus, we all know how she feels about people who give up on IVF (in case you missed the memo, she thinks they’re not cut out to be parents in the first place) so I feel like when she questions me she is not only saying I can’t handle IVF or pregnancy, she is also calling me a bad parent. And that is not ok. How dare she question my hypothetical future parenting skills or ability to be a mother because I confessed I’m struggling on a new medication. What kind of doctor would do such a thing?

The second major problem with ethinyloestradiol are the mood swings I am experiencing. You may have already guessed that from reading this post…

These mood swings are on a whole other level to what I’m used to. It is unlike anything I’ve ever gone through before. It started about 24 hours after I went onto the medication. I started crying all the time. I was absolutely distraught and nothing could cheer me up.

Then the next day, I was angry. Super angry. I suddenly hated my husband, didn’t want him near me and didn’t want him to look at me or touch me or breathe in the vicinity of where I was standing. I don’t even know what he did to trigger such a reaction. He would reach out to me and I would scream at him to go away. It caused me to become angrier and angrier, and my husband to oddly become clingier and clingier.

The more I screamed at him to leave me alone, the more he insisted on following me around the house like a sad little puppy, constantly asking me why I was upset with him and how he could make it better. It was a fucking nightmare. I almost packed my bags and went to stay at my parents house just to get away from him.

My moods started rapidly swinging back and forth. One minute I was happy and normal, the next minute I was weeping, and then I was looking at my husband like maybe I wanted to scalp him with a kitchen knife.

Not only was it hard for my husband to cope with this, it’s also been devastating for me. I don’t want to behave how I’m behaving. I don’t want to make him upset or push him away. And I don’t want to feel like this all the time because it’s exhausting and maddening.

We looked up the common symptoms of ethinyloestradiol and surprise surprise! Common side effects include depression, anxiety and rapid mood cycling. Doug promised to be understanding, and just keep on loving me the best way he knew how. But after about a week his resolve started wearing thin. He started biting back when I snapped at him, and we started arguing constantly.

When I mentioned to Doctor Holiday that I’m having these awful mood swings she told me that ethinyloestradiol doesn’t cause any such problem. She suggested if I am having mood swings I have a mental health issue, not a drug side-effect. She said I need to go and see a counsellor to get my mental health issues rectified because whilst IVF is hard, being a parent is much harder and if I can’t cope with this I won’t cope with being a mother.

Do you see what I mean about the threats?? I mean come on! Stop subversively insulting me every time I admit to experiencing an emotion or symptom.

To make matters worse, the doctor said that to me in front of my husband. So suddenly he’s thinking that I’ve just been acting like a bitch for no good reason, and that makes me a bad wife for treating him in such a way. Like hey Doctor Holiday, thanks for making my hard life HEAPS harder.

I showed him all of the evidence that proves the doctor was wrong, and I think he mostly believed me when I said that I’m honestly not choosing to behave like this. But I know there’s doubt in his mind. So that’s great.

Then Doug started getting really depressed as well. He told me he knew it wasn’t my fault, but this whole thing is killing him. He said infertility isn’t like another illness that you can fight and overcome. With infertility you either win or you lose, and you don’t know it’s beaten you until you’re completely driven into the ground. He said he can’t do any more IVF. He can’t mentally or emotionally handle the failures, he can’t stand idly by and watch me get sick and depressed, and we can’t afford it because we have no money left. But then he said he can’t imagine living a life without children. It’s his number one wish in life to be a dad, and he just can’t live a childless life.

Then, the following evening, he casually mentioned that he had been speaking to his mother on the phone, and they had joked about how there should be a compulsory physical examination before couples enter into a long-term relationship. I know that his mother hates me, and she has expressed in the past that he would be better off without me, but never did I ever expect him to even make a joke about such a thing. My own husband was “light-heartedly” implying that had he known I was infertile right at the start, he would never have married me.

After that pretty much all hell broke loose. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted to divorce him. I didn’t want to be with someone who would say such horrible things about me, and also because I didn’t want him to live a childless life. I didn’t want him to hate me or blame me for causing him to be stuck in a situation he didn’t want to be in. I said positively awful things to him. I suggested he wouldn’t even be upset if I left him, because he doesn’t really love me anyway. I told him that he would have a new girlfriend straight away and he wouldn’t miss me or think about me at all.

Once again, he bit back and started accusing me of clearly not wanting to be with him either if it was so easy for me to suggest we split up.

I pointed out that leaving him would be a huge personal blow for me because there’s no way I’ll have time to meet another man, get him to see past my massive medical problems, move in together, get married, and then attempt IVF before my 30th birthday (around the time I’m due to have a hysterectomy). Therefore, I was making a huge sacrifice and he was not because he could go out and get any old bitch knocked up and have ten thousand children.

He then accused me of not seeing him as a husband or lover, and only seeing him as a sperm donor to achieve my goal of having children. He shouted that I was clearly only staying with him to use him for his sperm, and not because I actually wanted to be with him.

Do you see what I mean when I say this past fortnight has been hard? We completely hit rock bottom as a couple. It’s a place we’ve never been before.

We continued sleeping in the same bed, but were hardly talking to each other and not touching each other at all. It got to the point where his leg would accidentally brush up against mine as he rolled over in his sleep and I would grunt and roughly push him away like he had supremely offended me.

A couple of days ago we started talking through our issues, and we are doing okay now. There’s still tension there, and I know a big part of that is the fact I’m still on this awful fucking ethinyloestradiol.

In my good moments we can laugh again now, and we snuggle up on the couch in the evenings to watch television. I know that we love each other very deeply, and we’re both going through something awful at the moment. We just have to try our hardest to stick together.

We’ve never been a couple who fought much before, so this is something new and hard for us. I have to hope we can make it through to the other side together, and stronger. He is honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to me and now I’m scared I’m going to lose him too. I couldn’t cope with losing him and my chance to have children at the same time.

The only good news is that the ethinyloestradiol is doing it’s job. I had a scan yesterday and my uterus lining is now measuring 9.6mm triple which is great news. I have started progesterone twice a day, and my FET is set for Wednesday.

I am starting to become really nervous already, and it’s only Friday afternoon. Jelly is our only embryo. If he doesn’t survive the thaw, or doesn’t expand properly, we have nothing else. The whole FET has been for nothing and we don’t get any of our money back. I have five more whole days to wait! I don’t know how I’m going to make it through.

If you have read this entire post I thank you sincerely. And please don’t judge me!

We can’t have a good day every day and I think sometimes it’s helpful to admit that you aren’t strong or good all the time.We all have moments of weakness when times are tough, and I just shared my weakness with the entire internet! I think that takes guts. Am I right or am I right? I’m so right.

Sadie xx