“You never know what might happen in future”
“Never say never”
“No-one can know what’s going to happen next”
“We expect things to happen, and we’re disappointed, hurt and confused when they don’t – but we aren’t owed these things – no-one ever said we were going to get them.”
I am blessed with some wise, wise friends-and-relations and a wise, wise Husby. And I can only assume that I must frustrate the hell outta them sometimes because they remind me of this with stunning frequency (and touching dedication) and I nod and agree and then go out and find myself living the absolute opposite.
And the fall-out comes, inevitably, and they rally around me, picking up the millions of pieces I’ve shattered into (again) and gently putting them back together with patience which can only be borne of genuine care, and it jolts and humbles me that in spite of the way I manage to be a total letdown with such regularity, those wonderful people – my Darling Lifeboats – are still there. And this evening when I found myself brought absolutely to my knees by the latest twist and turn of this awful nightmare of illness and infertility and the huge, nebulous haze of pain surrounding our dreams of becoming parents, they were there for me.
This week being The Week (as in, The Week of The Dreaded Appointment of Maybe The End of Dreams of Children), they were already out there in buoyant determination, shoring me up as the edges began to crumble and the cracks began to show. They talked a lot of sense as the threads of my mind started wandering close to the edge of failing me completely.
And then today happened. A long, hard, dull slog of a day in the office, with little to keep me from dwelling. Upon arriving home almost dead on my feet, I got a text from Husby: “Check your emails” and then a tract which sent me spiralling into total freefall.
The endocrinologist cancelled his appointment because she wouldn’t be there to see him. She also didn’t want to put him onto the testosterone (the one which will render him infertile – are you keeping up? I barely am) because he’s young and she thought that having had the other treatments and those having been successful, his body might kick-start itself and she wants to wait and see if that happens before hitting him with the Final Straw meds. She’s going to get him an appointment with the fertility clinic to see how things are going for him in that regard. And seeya!
I was rooted to the spot. Then I sent a reply full of swears and took my weary, cold, hollow self to bed for a nap, where I dozed and eventually kind-of warmed up, but the chill didn’t leave my heart.
Because this put everything back on the table, and what should be a reprieve felt like torture – we were finally a couple of days from maybe having something tangible – something solid – to work with, even if it was that final straw, at least we’d know what we were dealing with. And now, cast adrift again with the goalposts thrown beyond sight, all those terrifying, exhilarating, crushing hopes came thundering back and took me out.
Husby was out, and I was meant to be joining him, but halfway through two panicked, teary, swear-filled conversations with two of my Lifeboats, I decided I couldn’t possibly go in the state I was in, and rang him to cancel. To let him down. Again. Then I continued the panic and tried to engage as my wonderful amazing friends calmed me and tried to make sense of what was going on, and gave clear-headed advice and support and more than I ever could have hoped for.
And in a glorious quirk of timing, as I cried and ranted and each time one of them had to leave me (with worried concerns about whether I’d be alright) more Lifeboats arrived on the scene. Bam! Bam! Just like that. In perfect synchronicity to keep me from drowning.
Gradually my panic unwound and their words poured balm into my troubled heart and helped me make sense of this latest twist of the game.
This *is* a reprieve. And the most important thing is that Husby is going to be alright. The illness is under control. And if he’s going to be alright, and there’s still even the tiniest possibility that we might be able to have a child naturally, then we have to go for it, because the regrets will be too huge if
we I give up now, admit defeat, and cave to this situation.
Yes, it’s an awful place to be again – back on the rug, waiting for it to be pulled out from under me; back with those hopes which bring such pain when they’re dashed each month; back with that terror that this could also mean further miscarriages, and all the aversion and flashback and helplessness those two awful losses bring – and the sands there are shifting and I can’t get an even footing nor see my way clear, but I can reach out to Husby and lean on his strength. And I have my friends to hold my hands and talk me through. And I have God, who in His seeming distance and apparent allowance of such epic mindfucks as this, has at least seen fit to bend the universe so that these connections with such very wonderful people has happened.
Then the door opened and Husby walked in, having cancelled his plans and rushed home to me to pick up and complete what my friends had begun. As he sat and wrapped me up in a hug, the shattered centre of me shivered and I cried, leaning into his chest, smelling his delicious Husby-smell and clinging onto his scratchy-unshaven words as they poured out comfort over the top of my head.
I fiddled with the strings of his hoodie and mumbled my worries into speech, listening as he talked me through them, then beginning to smile again as he confirmed that things were okay. That they will be okay, somehow, and that this is a Good Thing. Then he made me a cup of tea, ate the meal I’d made him, and we continued our evening, quietly – panic (mostly) over, strengthened in our bond and our resolve.
We got this.
It’s messy, and painful, and confusing, and terrifying, and we both wish beyond anything that none of it was happening and that life was as simple and straightforward as it seems to be for some. But we got this.
Another UnLove-Tap with the big Bat of Life, and yes. I was in pieces (millions of them) for a while, but I’m put back together, thanks entirely to the wonderful people around me. I can’t do this alone, but perhaps I’m not meant to. And that’s a wonderful, sky-high-happy thought, because it’s not failure – it’s glory. I’m no longer (entirely) down. And I’m by NO MEANS out.
I got this. With help.
And today I am going to thank them in person, because quite honestly I really couldn’t have done it without them.
Zoe, who was there with me in the slog of the day, before the shit hit the fan, and who sent me the most hilarious valentine.
Christine, who sent me an email full of the best kind of ‘what for’, and who was there for me first and immediately (post implosion) with calm words of wisdom and comfort. And a way forward which I could wrap my head around.
Kristi, who didn’t leave until she was sure I was alright, who understood and swore with me. And who came back later with cake.
Chris, who had tough, golden words and shining care and good sense and helped me float again.
Beth, who made me smile first thing this morning when I really REALLY needed it, and who continued the ‘piecing back together’ in synchronicity, later, then chatted me back into a far brighter place.
And Husby. There are no sufficient words so…
And in smaller, but quite delightful ways, my smaller stickytapes, who shared of themselves and made me smile and warmed my heart and made the day more bearable: thank you Sandy, Melissa, Lisa and Mandi
And my bezzie. Who’s always there for me.