Ironic (adjective): Happening in a way contrary to what is expected
Omen (noun): Prophetic significance
This made me laugh recently:
Isn’t it ironic, that the day I take the first proactive step towards being able to ‘try again’ is the ultimate day of bad luck: Friday the 13th? The last Friday 13th was back in March, yep that was a dark day, the Friday after Summer died. Sounds about right for us, actually.
Tomorrow I have to go to the hospital for pre-assessment blood tests (FYI at this stage, I’ve given so much blood, I could easily host a vampire feeding frenzy). I’ll be back at the hospital on Monday for a COVID test and then, passing that/pandemic-permitting, I’m scheduled to have my adhesion surgery this time next week.
People keep asking me how I feel about it. I joke that I am having a hysteroscopy (a simple procedure used to examine the inside of the womb), which I hope that the surgeons don’t confuse with a hysterectomy (removal of the womb). Could you imagine! Well, at least it would take the “trying again conundrum” out of my hands. Dark humour, indeed.
To be honest, I’m feeling numb. As I am about everything, really. I haven’t blogged for a while, my longest stretch since I launched this blog in June. Initially I thought it was because I was feeling better, then I realised that it was because I’m not feeling anything.
I am on autopilot: you want me at the hospital at 8am? Ok then. You want me back again on Monday? Ok then. I have to return on Thursday? Ok then.
Perhaps this is a new stage to it all? I can’t decide how I feel about it. At first, it was a welcome reprieve. October – Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month – was REALLY difficult for me. But now, I miss feeling stuff. I miss the sadness. It’s almost a strange out-of-body experience, where I look at myself, reread my blogs and think “Grief? Did I really used to suffer from that? Huh.” To be honest, I don’t like it. It’s different, it’s uncomfortable, it’s weird.
Maybe it’s a clever thing, brain going into survival mode, processing and dealing with what’s immediately at hand: one day at a time, baby steps! Oh the irony.
So how do I feel about the surgery? Nothing. It’s just a minor procedure. I am a piece of meat. My privacy is out of my hands, once more. I will be under general anaesthetic and I don’t mind, either way, whether I wake up or not. Not that there’s really a risk of that happening, which makes that sound like an attention-seeking thing to say, but it’s not intended as such. Rather, I’d like to make the point about how easy it is for me to write that, because I’m truly indifferent, apathetic, numb to it.
I have a trick to employ next week though, because this is my third time in the hands of others. So this time, I’m keeping time. One of the things I’ve found difficult – throughout my surgeries – is the loss of time. You’re in a room, slurping up gas, you close your eyes and when you next open them, you’re somewhere else. It all happens in the blink of an eye, except it doesn’t. Because later you find that time has passed and you have absolutely no recollection of it. I do not like that. So I plan to ask the time (you’re not allowed to wear a watch), to know the exact time when I go under and when I wake up. It doesn’t really change anything, but I will know for certain how much time I’ve lost. I’ve been told that it’s a quick procedure, so I’m planning to find out if that’s true.
Most people are probably looking forward to Christmas now, not me. It’s also my birthday next month, again, another non-event. Last year I was pregnant over my birthday and Christmas, this year the surgeons will have gifted me contraception as part of my procedure. Oh the irony: surgery to aid conception, which ends with contraception inserted. I – alongside millions of others, I’m sure – would just like to see the end of this year. 2020 will be memorable for all, it is the year that time stood still. But was that also the case for your fertility journey? Because it was for mine.
There is one good omen on the horizon though. Given the surgery to my womb, I will have to wait 6 weeks until we can start to try again. So I’ve done the maths and counting 6 weeks from Thursday 19th November, takes us straight through to Thursday 31st December. This means that our fertility journey can start again on Friday 1st January 2021. Whether we decide to pause for longer, or not, I like that date. It’s neat. A fresh start. A good omen? Here’s hoping.
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Don’t worry – one day you will be yelling at your wardrobe too (or something else) because it is not cooperating with your plan and you will go full on meltdown on your bedroom floor holding your tummy.
Grief is always there. Simmering.
Just a kind reminder that, when all was fine and there was no thoughts of fertility and pregnancies, there were also days of nothing, you just didnt notice them because sadness and longing have become such a present companion.
Anyway, joke’s on everyone that told us: don’t go having sex you will end up pregnant…
I like to think of it as a great omen. Hold on to that. In portugal we dont like leap years – every recession and catastrophes tend to happen on these years….
Anyway, I am rambling. All I wanted to say is, I’ll seat with you and stare at nothing if you want me to xx
I think numbness is part of how you manage to get through each day – to function on some level. I’ve been walking through months of that autopilot, awaiting the date to start on a research trial with Tommy’s – our journey restarting again on the rollercoaster. I know we are blessed with a child, I get that, but having to go into detail about my losses, once again, brick by brick took down the fortress I’d built to be able to go to work, to be a mummy, a wife, a “vaguely normal” Functioning member of society. I think I’m back to feeling too much, my head is swimming with the what ifs, the panic, the slight little hint of excitement of being pregnant again, after a year of watching friends and colleagues have their little bundles of joy.
It’s unnerving to feel numb – I don’t know you, but you write so deeply and with such feeling- it’s still there, I feel you’re just protecting yourself – this next step is one of hope but not the innocent excitement we all had the first time you started trying for a family..but I hope that you truly do find self-care again, that you do value your own life. You’ve given so many of us a beacon of light in a very dark, often lonely journey. I hope the procedure goes well, and that you can start to move forwards – not to forget- but to continue some form of healing from such agony of your loss. It will always be with you l, but hopefully it’s acuteness will ease. I do truly believe, despite the darkness we are left with, we are stronger and our hearts are fuller for having been through these journeys and having known our little angels. Here’s to 2021 X
Thank you so much for reading the blog and for your insight Jessie, I was so touched by your thoughts, they really do bring me comfort. I hope you get your Tommy’s appointment soon, so that you too can start to move forwards and allow yourself that hope and positivity again. The word “stranger” is just one letter way from “stronger”… and though we are strangers, we are definitely stronger together. Xx