game over?

I forgot my afternoon meds yesterday. This is the second time I’ve missed a dose in a week. I can’t eat, although I slept well on Femara last night…I’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week, my green track shorts (not that I’m celebrating St. Patrick’s day, my track shorts just happen to be green), pink t shirt, Fair isle socks and Geoff’s silly Ska-tellite sweatshirt (I hate ska, but the sweatshirt smells like Geoff). Brushing my teeth is a Herculean effort, my face only rinsed once a day while my pricey cleansers and serums sit on the bathroom counter forgotten. I look old, and it upsets me but I don’t care enough to combat the fine lines and furrows, the bags under my eyes. I’m becoming concerned that my anxiety and depression are interfering with my ability to take care of myself.

No more bleeding, though my uterus feels full and crampy. It’s like my cervix is sealed — I knew a woman that went through the same, but she had decent insurance and was able to fly to Boston and have her adhesions removed by Dr. Isaacson, a specialist. Sometimes I fucking can’t stand people with real insurance. I figure at some point, I will have to file for medical bankruptcy. So it goes.

I hate myself right now. I hate the disabilities that push me to the fringes of society and the infertility and loss that alienate me even more. I feel forgotten by my community, by every friend I’ve ever made. I’m truly at the edge now, and I don’t trust anyone who has never stared directly into the red eyes of childlessness.

I’m not sure how I’ll live through the pain of being basically sterilized. I don’t know if I’ll be able to live through this. No one cares, it’s just me and Geoff, who tries desperately to pull me out of my anger and sorrow. I’m inconsolable having been stripped so completely of hope so quickly…my eyes are glazed, there is a lump where my heart was. I’m too tired to consider escaping this life, and just wish I could get hit by a train unexpectedly or something quick like that, although I did once meet a woman who jumped in front of a train and survived and I certainly don’t want something like that to happen to me.

My OB is kind, but I don’t think she’ll be able to help me. Likewise, my psychiatrist is kind though incompetent, so I don’t think she’d be much help either. As usual, no one can help me and most won’t take the time to even try. I hate the universe.


Whoever out there who still believes suffering is rewarded is smoking something, and I’m not talking about tobacco or marijuana. The anguish of the last three years is still so fresh and raw that sometimes I find myself doubled over in pain. The best part of the day is the part when I knock myself out with antipsychotics. Do I keep taking the Femara when every instinct tells me my cervix is blocked? Do I put myself through the suffering…two more pointless Femara cycles, then going through testing I’m sure will leave me devastated? I have to admit, the thought of never returning to my doctor’s office again fills me with a sense of relief…as does not incurring more medical bills.

I bought my little cat a cat tree. It was the biggest purchase I’ve made in a long time…I think of the things I could buy if I didn’t have to spend on just supplements alone. I’ve been wanting a weighted blanket. Hmmm.


abandon hope all ye who enter here

I couldn’t have come so far just to be stopped in my tracks by Fate and Asherman’s Syndrome. Here I am, I’ve been trying to get pregnant with my first child since November of 2014. I have endured a second trimester termination, losing our little girl Molly to T21. I have suffered a year and a half of negative home pregnancy tests until I started to randomly get pregnant and lose babies to miscarriages, always at nine weeks, wondering why but instinctively knowing the answer. My eggs are flawed, deeply flawed, and my husband and I cannot produce anything but tested aneuploid embryos; deep in the secretness of my once trusty uterus, our babies take hold, explode into exotic blooms and briefly flourish before becoming twisted and unnatural until they are so shot through with the black of sickness they are extinguished, and then have to be removed by force. I have grieved four babies, sobs coming from deep in my solar plexus and vibrating though the tips of my fingers and toes until I am consumed with the electricity of sorrow. In other words — I have suffered, and suffered badly, and I’m still not ready to stop.

My period this month was one day of on and off bleeding. Cramps wrack my body and my heart pumps out terror, sending it through my entire body to incapacitate me…I know the menstrual blood in my uterus cannot exit and I know scar tissue and adhesions are blocking my cervical canal. It’s over, I tell myself but despite the direness of my situation I cling to hope. Can we pull of treatment of this latest fiasco, financially? I honestly don’t know. I know you’re not supposed to self-diagnosis, but I do it all the time and have never once been wrong. I am profoundly familiar with the rhythms of my body, and I am acutely aware when things are out of whack. I harbor not a single hope that my uterus is free from scarring and adhesions. As I said, a woman that has had three D&Cs faces a 32% chance of Asherman’s Syndrome, and I’ve had three D&Cs and a D&E. I’ve been scraped raw and empty, multiple times, and at one point the cutterage must have slipped, injuring the endometrium and raining destruction from the heavens. And, BTW, I never ever ever end up on the right side of the odds.

So what? Jig’s up, no baby? Should I try to move on without a glance behind me, into a wild childfree life of travel and horseback riding, like my ditzy psychiatrist has? That’s never what I wanted. But nah, I don’t think I’m going down that easy, I plan to fight although my psychic energy wanes. Still, in this moment the anxiety defies my tranquilizer medication, the anger is bigger that any mood stabilizer can hold in check. We had to see the on-call surgeon. We couldn’t fucking wait for my regular and much trusted OB to do the fucking procedure. And now they want two more pointless cycles of Femara where the sperm will be unable to enter my suffocated cervix as I suffer from the attendant horrible mood swings and headaches, then I’m supposed to make an appointment with my OB to evaluate whether or not additional tests are needed. And all the while…tick, tock, goes the clock of the Universe, you are getting pretty fucking old, sweetheart, and I don’t give a shit about you…


Everyone’s life seems to be going wonderfully but mine. I’m sick of congratulating people, of offering support until they get pregnant and disappear. Pretty much, I hate everyone today and I guess because I’m so negative I feel totally abandoned and like I don’t mean shit to anyone. No one would miss me if I disappeared but Geoff, and that’s a good reason to stick around but damn…


I am hating my life today. And there’s no one around to make me feel better, no doctor that can help me. I hate doctors. I just took my pointless Femara, perhaps this month I’ll pop out a good egg that will die in my uterus with retained menstrual blood…where is the blood going? I’m cramping, but nothing.


I just got off the phone with my mom. Random small talk, like it always is now. We’ve always been close but now I can’t talk to her. I wanted so badly to tell her what is wrong, and I couldn’t. Just like when Molly died, and btw I feel just as awful right now as I did when Molly died, I developed serotonin poisoning, and had that horrible botched dental surgery. I figure I lived through it once, I can do it again. But I’d rather not have to.


Why? Why do terrible things keep happening to me? Why do I have to hurt this badly? My OB’s website says that having more than two miscarriages is “fortunately very rare”? Why does it have to be me?

I have been crying all day, and I know from experience that if I make myself stop, I’ll just become angry and hateful. I’d rather cry. I think of going to the hospital, but you don’t even get to see the doctor on the weekends. Plus, I already owe Providence a shit ton of money. So that’s out, plus I took my stupid Femara and I feel I shouldn’t waste it. I think I’ll write my OB and say I can’t wait two months, but if I actually am out of the game I really would like to postpone the horrible upset that would come with that. I still have the tiniest bit of hope. Fucking Scruffy.

problems and panic attacks.

My doctor says to try three months of Femara, and if I’m not pregnant and my periods aren’t back to normal I should be evaluated for Asherman’s. I filled a regular tampon last night, but no bleeding this morning. Jesus, the only thing I had going for me was an overly enthusiastic uterus that would implant anything, chromosomes be damned. Now I am scared of a potential problem that means the show might be over — I cannot pay for removal of adhesions (uterine adhesions are like scar tissue that stick the walls of the uterus together, caused by endometrial trauma, usually a D&C). I’ve read that if you’ve had three D&Cs, your chances of scarring are 32%…I’ve had three D&Cs and a D&E to manage my losses. I wish I had tried the drugs to induce miscarriage but I was so traumatized by my one natural miscarriage — it was both physically and emotionally painful, and I had such a desire not to repeat anything like it, so stupidly I opted for D&C after D&C.

Needless to say, I’m in a panic. I struggle to draw breath. I’m not ready to be forced to stop trying. And I don’t want to suffer through another two months of Femara if I do have adhesions and don’t have a chance of conceiving.

Maybe I’ll be lucky and my periods will normalize. I’ve always experienced heavier bleeding a couple of cycles after a procedure, now I’m just spitting little bursts of bleeding.

I’ll start my letrozole tomorrow. Why the fuck not?


Oh, great, if I do get pregnant I’m at risk for incompetent cervix because of all the surgeries. This is why I don’t like to Google. Fuck everyone.


wild thing

Listening to old Liz Phair recordings from back when she delivered her lyrics in that wonderful deadpan voice, my little cat clamoring for his breakfast, and my temazepam flooding my bloodstream after my daily panic attack (this one came about from a sudden irrational thought that I may never have another period again and am full blown menopausal — I confirmed ovulation per BBT, I have to get a period, right?). I sip on coconut water with pineapple and contemplate my white-as-the-driven-snow home pregnancy test from this morning at 13dpo and feel hate bubbling through the chemically induced calm as I stretch out on the couch and let bitterness settle over me. I imagine, with horror, my uterus all stuck together on the inside from scarring and I’m pretty sure Medicare will cover neither an SIS nor a hysteroscopy to see if this source of extreme anxiety is justified and even if they did cover, I would have to struggle to get money together for the copay. I guess today will just be a fretful day and this morning I feel upset for no good reason and completely inconsolable.

I have to pull myself together. I am dropping the ball on quitting caffeine and reducing my intake of carbohydrates (noodles being my favorite food group), I drank a couple of soy based protein smoothies and I’m pretty sure soy is bad for my infertility. But if there’s scarring in my uterus, does it even make sense to try? The clock is spinning wildly, time moves rapidly to my fortieth birthday and I feel all of this is an exercise in futility.

You’ll have to pardon me — spring season is rough on me, and I’m already preparing for the resultant chaos that gets me as soon as I flip my Edward Gorey calendar to April. April 4 will be the one year anniversary of my second miscarriage, followed by April 7, the three year anniversary of the day Molly died. And, incidentally, the majority if my mental hospitalizations have been in April (change in light is sometimes rough on us bipolar folk), although these preceded my attempts to ttc.

May offers no relief, as we pulled life support on my little sister on May 10, 1996 and then all this is concluded with the acutely dreary advent of Mother’s day, the most depressingly saccharine day of the year. Dates and anniversaries and the like used to mean nothing to me, but have swelled in impact since I started this path of infertility and RPL. And I know not why.

I feel an impulse to go hog wild. I dreamed last night that I broke almost 14 years of sobriety by smoking pot — in all my dreams of relapsing into chemical dependence, my drug of choice is always marijuana despite the fact that I never really liked it and favored my much more dangerous vices. I sometimes think of turning back to addiction if this whole baby thing doesn’t work out but the memories I have of my abbreviated pregnancies are so wondrous, those memories of fleeting happiness upon seeing a heartbeat on ultrasound so precious, that I know a night alternating between coke and oxycontin is no comparison, not even as a sloppy second option. No, I’m still committed to sobriety, still determined to cultivate empathy although I do regularly encounter folks I feel don’t deserve it.

A big part of me has given up on a biological child, and when Geoff brings up fostering in hopes of adopting, I feel nothing but panic. It’s a horrible place to be.


I hate when people say, “if I’m not pregnant this cycle…” I just assume I won’t be.


CD1 here.


end of the rope

I am underwater, senses dulled and utterly alone. I am aware of nothing but the bitter bite of cold that sinks into the bone and fills my lungs as I try to draw breath and suddenly all is light and beauty. And then I am awake, glad to feel Geoff’s presence by my side and feel the heat emanating from his sleeping form. I feel the weight of my little cat, posed perfectly between us, and for a second my heart is full of love for my husband and our sweet pet but finally the bad feelings rush through my blood and there is nothing but the sting of grief and pain.

I am committed to at least one more cycle with Femara, understanding that it’s a foolhardy choice. I cannot go on indefinitely, stumbling through the inevitable darkness it brings and keeping my head held high in defiance of Fate. As much as I long to hold my own child, I will not kill myself trying when I have Geoff’s love to honor and cherish. I feel his hope slipping as well — I think he’s lost as much faith in my body as I have. He’s still here, at least, although he could easily leave for a woman, perhaps much younger, with ovaries of gold and platinum and a womb that is perhaps not twisted with theorized destructive scar tissue. I am stymied as to why he stays with a sick woman when he has so much to offer a woman more deserving, someone who, perhaps, is not a professional mental patient and has far more to contribute to the grand love affair of which he is capable.

I walk around feeling like there is a knife piercing my heart.

I just returned from my therapy, where I did not utter a word about my disdain for the House Intelligence Committee, the firing of Rex Tillerson, the appointing a torturer to run the CIA. I spoke only of my anger at the things that have happened to me, how deep it cuts, how much I am struggling with it and how cold my loved ones have become. Of how the mornings are okay, but as the day slips by I sink deeper into hopelessness and despair. And finally, about how bitterness is eroding the good parts of me, leaving me as cold as those I condemn.

There is smoke in the air and I think, something is burning but of course it is not, it is just what therapists used to refer to as an overly active imagination but is now diagnosed as psychosis. I turn my attentions elsewhere and the panic recedes.




Waking early to a chilly morning, rolling over to see if Geoff is there with me and I pause to contemplate his solid form before nudging him. I remember being roused during the night with my little cat standing on my head, a single soft front paw covering each of my closed eyes, yelling his name, and then Geoff gently pulling him off of me. As I rolled around to get comfortable again, I heard my husband’s soft voice telling me to go back to sleep.

“I’ll watch over you,” he said, stroking my hair as I drifted off again.

I wonder if there is, like, a quota of how much love you can receive from fellow humans and if Geoff alone fills mine because certainly no one else responds to me with anything more than callousness. I find myself starving for empathy and at the same time feeling guilty that maybe I am not offering enough myself. I think of the friends I’ve lost to suicide and drug overdoses (not much difference in my eyes) and I think of the people I’ve met in recovery that I did not know well but succumbed to that fate as well. Without disregarding individual responsibility at all, I see losing somebody who had a chance (and everyone does) to suicide as a failure of community of sorts. I know that is controversial — I once informed a close friend of a suicide in our recovery community and he responded by shaking his head.

“Some must die so others can live,” he stated flatly before changing the subject. I was flabbergasted by the coldness, and never forgave him, really — I still interacted with him and went to his house for visits but that singular dismissive comment was filed away and never forgotten. How can you not feel a sense of personal failure when someone you know takes their own life? Because nobody has to die at all.

But am I any better? Who have I reached out to lately?

I’ve been reading informally about the concepts of empathy and cruelty, because I once was a self-obsessed addict who treated people horribly and now I am here perhaps being punished for it, writing all day because I have a tremendous compulsion to have somebody, anybody, express some desire to understand what it is like to be a mentally ill infertile woman who has said goodbye to four much loved babies. It reeks of self-indulgence and I am acutely aware of that; at the same time, my efforts have been met (IRL) with nothing but disaffected indifference and although not suicidal I have experienced such an uncaring response from so-called loved ones that I can clearly see why some poor souls choose to check out permanently. And my trials and tribulations are, basically, first world problems (although the friend that accused me of having “rich girl problems” can straight up go to hell), nothing like the extreme hell some have lived through and died of.

I think I mentioned that I was reading a book called The Science of Evil by Simon Baron-Cohen, which I’ve read before. I’m not too far into it this time, because reading about the outrageously cruel acts of say, the Nazi regime during the Holocaust, causes me more misery than I can cope with right now. In describing cruelty, or evil (the author uses the term “empathy erosion”) Baron-Cohen discusses the theory that humans are capable of moral depravity to others because they cease seeing them as human — “dehumanization” is the favored term there. However, I recently read an article The New Yorker posted on Facebook that I can’t cite properly but that proposed that this commonly held tenet was fallacious.*

Baron-Cohen, in the very beginning of the book, tells a story told by a concentration camp survivor of a prisoner that was to be hanged. The Nazi guard made his own best friend tie the noose, and ordered him to put it over the doomed man’s head. The man in question’s hands were shaking so violently that he could not get the noose over his beloved friend’s head, so in a gesture of amazing selflessness and bravery, the friend took his hands, kissed them, and pulled the noose around his own neck. Angry, the guard kicked the chair away and the friend perished having not allowed his friend to be forced to kill him.

I grow shaken and wobbly myself reading shit like that. The guard, in my eyes, was not “dehumanizing” either man. He was punishing them precisely because they were human. “Dehumanization” is like, a word that gives the guard far more credit than he deserves. I pull my little cat (now forgiven for his late night transgressions) closer as I mull this over. Of course, I know I am incapable of such egregious acts of evil but how can I ensure that my capacity for empathy is never again eroded the way it was when I was addicted? Because now with RPL, I still feel like I’m in that cycle of addiction. And I confess to having little patience for the petty problems of others as I grieve my lost babies and consider a life denied of children. I have even withdrawn from my recovery community, feeling that I have no cares for those who struggle to get to the point of abstinence while I’ve already accomplished that and received jack shit for my efforts.

I admit I am full of anger and hate. I don’t want to become cruel, but I do find myself on occasion making snide little comments to people and rolling my eyes at their problems when I feel they have not suffered as much as I have. Am I deranged with selfishness?

I am crying and confused. I think of my mother with her pat answer of, “well, I don’t want to talk about that, I’ve never been through it,” that she gives me every time I bring up my losses. The friend I texted after the unspecified triggery event I’ve referred to this past weekend who texted back, “I don’t have time to read that now *insert sad face emoji*” after I’d agreed to read her fucking book and make notes on it for no reason other than I wish her success at her writing. You can’t read a few lines of text? Here I am, getting bitter again. How do I save my soul?

I’m staring down (not at) another bfn at 11dpo, feeling period-crampy and sad and lost in the aftermath of Saturday’s forgotten bedtime meds (not just the Geodon, but the day’s Paxil and Trileptal as well). I feel the anger and I’m hating my body and the world and all the hate is scary and isolating AF. I remember my daydream about having a child and how wonderful it was to hold my Molly, and my mom was there acting gentle and tender like she did when I was a child, and I wonder why it is that love so seamlessly turns to hate…


And for all my talk of striving for empathy, I find myself cloaked in bitterness at anyone who is still hopeful with no caveats, angry at myself for indulging in my own hopes this past weekend even though my fantasies were wrought by pharmaceutical factors…

How dare I dream of holding a living baby in my arms when I know from hard experience I cannot influence my shitty chromosomes to align in any sort of cohesive manner, my embryos testing again and again for devastating trisomies while everyone I know, fertile or not so much, pulls it off so effortlessly?

I feel rage and the hurt that comes with it pulsing through me again. I feel utterly abandoned and alone. I am reminded of the scene in Bram Stoker’s Dracula when Dracula renounces God in anger after discovering his beloved wife dead from suicide, and the chapel starts bleeding; I imagine I am bleeding as well, always bleeding, month after month as my hatred swells. My psychiatrist cannot help me with these mood swings while I insist on taking Femara. And I know someone is pregnant, right now, and her baby won’t die like mine do and nobody fucking understands, nobody fucking cares.

And I don’t want to feel this way. I hate it; I am desperately unhappy. I don’t know what to do.

*I found the article


bad night

I had a really bad night last night. At bedtime, I wasn’t sleepy at all, which was bizarre because my medication usually knocks me out for a couple of hours. I found myself tossing and turning next to Geoff’s sleeping form. All of the sudden, I was lost in thought. I enjoy being lost in thought, but usually avoid allowing myself that luxury nowadays because I have so many horrible things going through my brain at any given time, it’s just too dangerous emotionally. I usually distract myself by playing on my phone or computer instead.

But suddenly, I was daydreaming about having a baby. Such vivid thoughts, I could feel her in my arms and it was Molly and she was alive and healthy, my parents there cooing at her, the in-laws, too; I felt rhapsodic and so happy and at peace. It was the way things were supposed to be and it was perfect.

Except I had the nagging thought that something was wrong. Bitter Kathleen does not indulge in fantasies of success. I often reflect on how miserable our most-likely childfree life will be, feeling all the fear and pain and rage until I have to take my benzos and lay down on the couch. But I felt this delicious relief daydreaming of my happy ending, a euphoria I could feel deep down in my bones. All this, while knowing for certain that my first torturous cycle of letrozole after miscarriage has failed, and that I may not get anymore chances.

Suddenly I broke into a sweat and started shivering. I had to pee every five minutes. It was getting later and later, Geoff was blissfully asleep and snoring, and I closed my eyes. In my imagination, my tiny bedroom became a ballroom, with faceless and formally attired people waltzed and spun across the dance floor. And I opened my eyes and they were outside my head, my bedroom was transformed and the faceless people whirling across tbe floor, and I knew I must have missed a dose of my antipsychotic and I didn’t know how. I thought I’d lay there until my little cat came in to wake Geoff for his middle-of-the-night meal (don’t ask…Wendall is my cat, spends all day with me and ignores Geoff — except at 1am, he wants Geoff to feed him and not me). And then I was definitely hearing voices screaming and music blaring and I was scared so I woke up my grumpy husband.

“I don’t know how, but I missed a dose of Geodon and I need to eat something and take another 60 mg,” I told him as calmly as I could. Yogurt and honey appeared, and I took a pill. I planned to take another 20 mg every half hour until I could sleep.

When we woke up this morning, it turned out my 120 mg bedtime dose of Geodon was still in the pillbox. It was a relief knowing that I was right in assuming I had missed a dose. That cold sweat I was experiencing is always the number one indicator that I’m behind on my meds — I’m such an addict, I get withdrawals from Tylenol.

It amazes me how crazy I went so fast after missing a dose. It’s scary as hell that I am so dependant on it, how it’s the one outpost between me and sanity. But it worked out. Just another day in a life with schizoaffective disorder. And all the terror was worth it, because I had such a beautiful daydream before things came off the rails…

Molly. I keep on living because of you. But it might kill me in the end.


I fucking hate people. Like, I really fucking hate them. My therapist constantly tells me I need more social support but it’s not like I haven’t tried. I don’t think normal people give a rat’s ass about infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss and the resultant PTSD. It doesn’t seem like a big deal to them, they don’t want to hear it. They don’t want to know what it’s like living with schizoaffective disorder. They just want me to act like normal Kathleen.

Am I too self-obsessed, self-indulgent? Is it selfish of me to want to have my friends be interested in what my life is like? Are there more caring people out there that just pass me by? Honestly. I am not suicidal, but in these three years of he’ll thoughts have definitely flirted through my mind. I honestly think some of the remarks I’ve heard from people that supposedly care about me could make a less secure person take the plunge, twist the knife in. And it’s bullshit.

When you’re as sick as I am, everything is a life or death situation.


I feel a tremendous compulsion to understand why people don’t seem to give a shit.


end of cycle blues

Scruffy keeps poking his little face in through a dirty window, smiling serenely, a sage and somewhat Zen expression on his mud-smeared face. I pull the shade; I don’t want to even fucking deal with him this morning as my heart is filled with black, my thoughts dark and toxic, and my mind spinning out on the futility of continuing this venture. I hear him knocking his horn on the glass, demanding and incessant, but my spirit has hardened against him.

9dpo and he’s supposed to be doing his thing but this cycle has been so messed up I just want to put it behind me. My period is due in five days, and I just am praying for steady flow. If I can feel more confident that my uterus is functional, it will be a load off my mind and I’ll sigh with relief even in the absence of empirical evidence that things are, in fact, copacetic in there.

There are no indications that things will work this cycle, so I’m trying to let it go. How long have I been doing this, going at it the ol’ fashioned way due to constraints of finances and mental health, no hope of any doctor being able to actually help me? I know the bfn is coming and by now the sting is unbearable and I’m filled with the dread of hopelessness.

I can’t keep going too much longer…three years of my life is long enough to sacrifice to a doomed project, and it will probably take a couple more years of grieving before I can find my niche in the world again. If I ever do. Yesterday’s triggery event and my emotionally violent reaction to it begs the question: will I ever fit into society again? I seem to require a great deal of accommodations to function around friends and family, and there’s no way a normal person would indulge me because bottom line is that they just don’t get it.

If I had a healthy baby, would the world take me back? I’m pretty sure it would, but I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.


The Interwebs has been infiltrated with unicorns today. I hope Scruffy is not out there causing mischief. Clomid or Femara are not magic bullets but I guess everyone’s thinks they’ll work automatically the first cycle. I was just grateful to have survived my first cycle. But no, I’m being bitter — I must admit I’m sort of expecting to get knocked up again, all fatalism aside.

Not this cycle, though. This cycle was my penance for last pregnancy’s hope, you remember, when Scruffy went on a meth binge and was bouncing off every wall in town. I’ll have to watch God knows how many unicorns get bfps and feel all sorts of pain and horror and lose at least a couple more friends (yesterday’s unspecified triggery incident comes to mind) before I can possibly get another chance. That’s how it goes; I’ve been here before. Predetermined amount of suffering, worn down to absolute hopelessness … only then do I see a second line, first a squinter on a Wondfo, then confirmed on FRER. And then the initial ultrasounds that inevitably display death. Have I really done this 3 times since my tfmr, the horribly traumatic event that was supposed to be the nadir of my blessed life with my beloved Geoff?

Fuck everyone, fuck rainbows. And that “forty is still young!” my OB’s medical assistant tacked on to her last message to me — I’ve been having chromosomal losses since I was thirty-fucking-six.


I am so so tired of feeling like shit. I’m not sure what to do. Give up ttc? Stop taking Femara? I’m not sure either of these things would actually provide relief; instead, I feel they’d just usher in a different type of hell. That letdown feeling of utter despair upon waking and remembering how shitty life is has become so familiar, the hours of feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin I go through every day, the random bursts of tearful sorrow and grief, the flashbacks and panic attacks that plague me several times a week…all I want is to escape this misery.


8dpo with ptsd

8dpo: I seem to really be back to normal, meaning that I barely slept and I didn’t cry over a super triggery post on Facebook that left a good friend unfollowed this morning. I’m cranky, but it’s regular cranky and not Femara-induced rage. Scruffy is nowhere to be found; he must be off on a bender somewhere and I don’t even care because at least it is finally quiet in my head.

I don’t understand how infertile women can finally get pregnant, and then just have a happy pregnancy that leads to a healthy child. All the times I really believed this was finally my time, that the Universe had finally granted me a pass, only to hear “sorry, no heartbeat”, often from insensitive medical personnel who just wanted to get rid of me and get on with their day’s work with happier patients and circumstances…

It’s fucking as unfair as shit.

And for some reason when I started this cycle, I expected the Femara to work like it did before, but now I’m all wtf was I thinking? laughing, shaking my head and turning up X-ray Spex as loud as I can without attracting property management. The lawn mower guy is here, giving me a bit more leeway for volume.

Oh, good, the triggery situation just got way worse, because of course I made it worse by getting triggered. Am I going to be fucked up for the rest of my life? I text Geoff, who instructs me to take my temazepam. I wonder if it will work, if it’ll work for the rest of eternity as I sit damaged in my living room with only emptiness in my uterus and cracks in my heart. I feel like calling my psychiatrist and screaming at her to fix me, but that usually ends up with me incorrectly diagnosed with “atypical manic disorder”, which is this thing my psychiatrist apparently made up just for me when I yell at her. My therapist looked it up once in the book of ICD codes, but all it had was “atypical measles”.

My little cat tries to snuggle up, completely unaware that I’m sort of upset with him for smashing my favorite serving dish during the night. Oh, well. I hold out my hand and he snuffles at it, edging in so he’s resting on my belly. Is this all there is for me?

And the depression is real and tangible and I know it’s not the Femara and I’m just fucked.


2.17 PM, and I’ve forgiven my little cat for smashing my dish and lay here wrapped around his warm little body as he makes contented grunting noises and leans all his weight into me. I feel anchored, secure. I know he’ll be with me here until his dinner time and there is nowhere I need to go.

It’s been a difficult day. I think of the past three years, have I really been pregnant four times and lost four babies? Did I really drive all my friends away, probably forever since I don’t think the flashbacks are ever going to stop? My therapist scoffs at trauma therapy and EMDR and Transcranial magnetic therapy — is she wrong about all of it? (Tbh, these things do sound pretty silly to me, but what if they work?).

I can’t emerge from this chrysalis of grief. I need to nourish my body, rest my mind. I’m listening to X-ray Spex on repeat and I wonder if I should put on The Rachaels or Low or something nice, lie back, put my phone away. I idly wonder if my fruit of the month will arrive today (my aunt gave me a membership to a fruit of the month club for Christmas and last month the oranges were so delicious), saving me the trouble of thinking up something healthy to eat. I really didn’t sleep much last night.

I wonder if I’ll ever feel at peace again.


reflections in my thirty-ninth year

I have so much to say, and no one to say it to. Rather, when I do have opportunity for conversation, I fritter it away by speaking of nothing bit trivialities. I have no real clear memories of what I talked about during my last therapy session. When Geoff gets home from work, I am already sleepy and only address the mundane. And on the rare occasion I have to speak to anyone else, I can barely choke out basic pleasantries.

So when I am alone, I write and I feel like I will die if I stop. I am capable of better writing, but there is no time. The compulsion to dance my fingertips over my keyboard or phone never lets up, but I fail to make meaningful connections with the words tumbling over the unread pages of prose. I think this is some sort of psychological phenomenon; I looked it up once, there was a word. The more time I spend writing, the more isolated I become. I could venture out into the world, exchange basic small talk with a cashier or barista or someone, feel I’m a participant of the most minor sort in my community. But I remain locked inside with my neuroses, tears on my cheeks from the loneliness. I cannot break free. I imagine a sane person would not understand, but I am bats.

I am waiting, always waiting. In between paragraphs, I check my bbt chart, wondering furiously if this is the month that will bring a modicum of freedom. To me, pregnancy breaks me out of my self-inflicted imprisonment but it’s only for short spurts of time. I know a BFP means basically nothing because of my history of RPL, my new inability to carry past the ninth week. I know I’ve probably used up all my chances by now and will face middle age childless and grieving.

But the motions are so familiar, the hope has yet to be extinguished. I indulge in self-pity, my poor tragic soul. I take my temperature, I take my pills, I dip test strips into Dixie cups of urine. I count days, and so many days have passed, slowly at first and then all at once. My Prince Charming has been by my side the whole time, but I wait for someone to rescue me.

And here I sit, long hair in hopeless tangles, beauty fading from the harshness of life, and I already have so many regrets…


I am 7dpo, waiting to see if I feel “normal” today. In my past cycles of letrozole, the moodiness and depression faded on precisely 7dpo so hopefully history will repeat itself. I slept well last night, resisted the urge to take my basal body temperature and thus eliminating the chance that I’ll spend the day poring over my chart. I think I’m off to a decent start.


I am suddenly desperately unhappy. Guess the moods are still an issue. My boobs still don’t hurt like they have in past Femara cycles…it’s 7dpo, shouldn’t progesterone be peaking? Unless I have my ovulation date wrong, which is entirely possible.

Infertility is the worst thing ever, even worse than schizophrenia and bipolar at the same time. And to stack RPL on top of all of that…god help me, I am so alone. I know this cycle’s a bust, trust me, I always know — I’ve been doing this for 3 years. My lining is fucked, I just know it and I possibly am full of adhesions. Maybe I’ll be sullen and grey for the rest of my luteal phase, or maybe my mood will shift violently again. Who fucking cares. Not the universe, that’s for sure.


Would it be weird to go down on my antidepressant because it’s making me too hopeful? I’ve written a lot about how dangerous hope is. I don’t want to be crushed at the end of every cycle — even today, long before my period’s due, Scruffy came prancing in, shaking his rainbow mane. It just never works out when he gets too fancy. I think steady depression would be preferable to rollercoaster ups and downs.

I asked Geoff and he totally ignored me. Hmmph.