Yesterday I “failed” yet another pregnancy test. Another month of early mornings, ultrasounds, blood tests, stomach needles and suppositories for nothing.
The phone call with the negative result always hurts. It’s happened so often now that I have the conversation memorized. The doctor’s secretary gently confirms that it’s me on the phone. She awkwardly asks if I already know the result. I tell her I didn’t get the blood results but that I have a good idea (read 10 pee sticks). She apologizes, tells me that it’s negative. We discuss protocol and she wishes me luck the next time. Yesterday’s phone call hurt a little more than usual. Today marks an anniversary.
One year ago today, I was in the hospital for the D&C. It was “play day “at my school. The hospital is right across the street from my work. I heard the music playing and the children laughing as my husband brought me in for the procedure. The baby shower for one of my “Belly Buddies”, a colleague, was scheduled for that same evening. The date was very close to my second due date, June 26th. I couldn’t help but thinking that if things had worked out, I may have been in this same hospital that day having a baby, not waiting to have yet another failed pregnancy removed from my body. One year ago today was the last day that I had a baby in my belly.
A whole year has gone by and I’ve been empty the whole time. The previous year I was pregnant 3 times!
When I got pregnant the first time I was 35 years old (just a few weeks away from turning 36). A few weeks from now, I turn 38. I still don’t have my baby.
I’m frustrated, I’m sad and I’m feeling very discouraged.