Well, it has been a funny old week. I have had a Cure earworm for the last 5 days (earworm…where a song sticks in your head and won’t get out). It’s ‘A Forest’, which seems pretty apt at the moment. Not because I’m camping, or because I’m an 80s goth, but because of my current frame of mind:
I don’t really know what to do with myself. The last 18 months have been reassuringly organised. I’ve either been planning an IVF cycle or doing an IVF cycle. Now…I’m not, because I’m not doing any more IVF cycles, ever again.
I’ve been crying rather a lot. Not in a dramatic fashion next to the coffee machine, but quietly and spontaneously, on my walk home, whilst listening to ‘Desert Island Discs’ or when I hug my husband. There’s a beautiful Christopher Wren church near my office where I go sometimes – I sit in an empty pew, close my eyes and enjoy the smell of polished wood and old Bibles. I talk to everyone in my head – family members here and departed, the ‘inner me’, God, although I feel strange doing that, like an imposter – and it just helps me feel better somehow. I went in there a few days ago for a quiet sob. The Vicar came over for a chat and I explained what has been going on. He’s a lovely man. It felt good to spill the beans to someone who knows nothing about infertility treatment. Maybe I needed that.
I do worry that I might have some sort of screaming meltdown at any moment. I’m doing fine on the outside – getting on with work, smiling, planning a family visit – but every now and again I’m gripped by the realisation that I AM NOT GOING TO GET PREGNANT WITH OUR OWN BABY. Our 5 cycles of IVF were a complete bust. I’m acting like a ‘normal person’ but on the inside I feel like I’m barely holding it together. What do people do in these situations? Quietly sob? Talk to a Vicar? Write a blog and get on with their lives? That’s what I’m doing. I think that’s probably the traditional British approach (perhaps minus the blog and the Vicar).
I’m also aware of the fact that I need to get a grip and remember there are people in far worse situations than me. I could be a disabled beggar in Kinshasa. I could be living in a makeshift refugee camp in Calais. I could be single and desperate for a baby. At least I’m halfway there.
So, what next? Well, I’m a hardcore organiser. I cannot relax. I must have spreadsheets. I am compelled to ‘do’. So it’s only natural that I’ve already started the quest for Plan B. More on that in the next post. For now, please enjoy the Cure.