And yet again

Well, it is a new year.  2018 started off rough as I spent New Years Day in bed as my body finally began to recognize the miscarriage we knew was coming for a week.  It was not the way I had hoped to start things, not the answer to our ongoing prayers.  But, "chemical pregnancies" are apparently very common and it was considered no big deal in the whole realm of things.  We were told we could start immediately into another cycle if everything had returned to baseline.  So, a few days later, I returned to the doctor and was cleared to begin a new cycle to transfer 2 more baby Savants.  Three ultrasounds, 7 blood tests, and 2.5 weeks later, we were back in Charlotte.  It seemed a bit surreal, how quickly it all happened.  There were no months of waiting, no months of testing.  And, for the first time since Lucas, no last minute surgeries that needed to happen in the days before the transfer.  It seemed like everything was going really well.  I felt good about it. 

And here I am, just 10 days later, kicking myself for letting my heart hope.  I get this weird scar pain with each pregnancy - intense c-section scar pain that gets worse and worse until I begin to worry that the baby has, perhaps, implanted into my scar.  I think I google that every time too.  Hannah, Lucas, Noah - all had this intense scar pain.  In December, I had it for 1 single day.  I knew, after that, with a fair amount of confidence, that it was over.  But this time?  Well, this time it lasted for 3.5 days.  Good days, where I allowed my mind to go there.  Where we talked about if we could make our house work with twins or if we would definitely need to move before they were born.  And then, came the pain.  And the cramping.  And the complete absence of scar pain.  Overnight, it all changed.  My pregnancy test was still positive yesterday.  But, not today.  Today, no matter how many little sticks I used, there was no second line.  And, just like that, our babies were gone.  Two more baby Savants, gone.  Two more children I will never know, never get to raise, never hold in my arms.

Here's where my heart is struggling now...I have this huge desire and burden to have a large family.  I thought for sure we would have at least 5 kids, maybe 6.  And, as we went through our first rounds of IVF, I thought that's what we were headed for.  So, I find myself confused and hurting and wondering why this dream of mine will not become my reality, why that desire was there in the first place.  The reality of me only raising Dean, Warren, and Hannah is becoming very real.  We have one more chance, one more shot at having children, and then that chapter of our lives is completely over.  My head is still swimming with that thought.  Because, here's the thing.  I would have been completely happy with Warren, Dean and Hannah.  I would have always missed Reagan, but I never thought I needed to add to the chaos of my life.  We may have pursued adoption or fostering or something.  But instead, I had 14 embryo.  FOURTEEN.  And so, we transferred Lucas.  And then Noah.  And then 5 babies we'll never know anything about.  And here I am, facing our very last 2 embryo.  Knowing that they are the "lowest quality" of the embryo we had, that their likelihood of survival is incredibly low.  Hannah, my spunky 2-year-old, may be the last baby in our home.  This box of maternity clothes that arrived the weekend of Lucas's death may never be taken out of the box I've hidden in my closet.  The mountain of baby clothes and toys may never be used again.  If we had decided we were done in 2015 after Hannah was born, none of that would be a source of intense grief.  Instead, I've lost 7 babies since June.  In less than the time it takes most women to carry 1 child through pregnancy, I've lost 4 pregnancies.

We didn't really share about this transfer, didn't really say much of anything.  It wasn't a secret necessarily, just nothing I openly shared unless it was asked.  I didn't want to feel judged for jumping in again, didn't want to hear the comments.  Silently going through this is not any easier, that is for sure.  Pretending like nothing happened, well, that's not making it hurt any less.  I long for the flickering heart on the ultrasound, the little baby kicks in my womb, the sleepless nights and stressful feedings and endless crying that come with having a newborn.  I'm not ready for this stage to end.  One more chance...

7 months

The last 2 embryo transfers have started off with the need for emergency, last minute surgeries.  I have been poked and prodded and violated more times than I can count in our desire to grow our family.  When we first found out we had 19 embryo, when we were able to freeze 14, we didn't know what our future would look like.  We used to joke about a reality TV show if we had them all.  We used to wonder what we would do with those that were frozen toward the end, those we wouldn't ever know.  Especially when I was pregnant with Lucas, preparing for the 4th baby I would raise, knowing that we had 8 more embryo and I seemed to get pregnant no matter what and we were only transferring 1 at a time.  And now?  Well, now we have 4 left.  We have 2 attempts, and then we are done.  I am realizing this may be it for us.  And, then what?  Our family doesn't feel complete.  But, maybe that's just the circumstances, maybe it never will. 

Today marks 7 months since I delivered our sweet baby boy.  Seven months since we welcomed Lucas into the world, only to have to say goodbye.  Seven months ago I was able to hold my sweet boy in my arms, to soak up every second of time with him.  And now, seven months have gone by with empty arms and a broken heart.  Again.  I miss my Lucas, every second of every day.  I still twinge when I see a baby boy, still feel my breath catch as I walk past the baby section in the stores.  The difference this time around is that I have no shelter, no way to hide from it all.  And no babies growing in my belly.  I always thought pregnancy loss would be easier if I had other kids at home.  It is not. 

2017 sucked.  That's really the best word I can type out to describe it.  We lost so much, and there is so much pain there.  I will never see my son grow up, never hear his little baby cries, never nurse him to sleep, never grow exhausted with the midnight feedings.  I am missing so much.  And, I should be right at the same point with Noah, 23.5 weeks.  And instead, nothing.  I am back on hormones and all sorts of new drugs, an attempt to prevent the future loss of any more babies.  But, as I spoke with my MFM, with each loss our odds go down.  Now, I know better than anyone that the statistics mean absolutely nothing.  In the best and worst of ways, we defy the odds.  But, on days like today, when the grief and loss are so raw, my mind goes back there.  Oh, what I wouldn't do to have my sweet boys back.  To have them all back.  Reagan.  Lucas.  Noah.  These last 2 we didn't even get to name.  I lose so much of myself with each loss.  And the thing is, I keep telling myself that, at least I can only lose 4 babies this year.  But, with that is the end of our chances, the complete closure of this chapter of my life.  And that, that is terrifying.