There Is A Limit

to how much I can cope with, and I have just reached it.

Miscarrying for the 5th time, I can just about manage.

My MIL twisting the knife, I can nearly put up with.

The fox eating all Harry’s hens, I can live with.

My Professor now viewing me as a hopeless case and referring me back to someone else, I can stand.

I have, after all, been most kindly supported by everyone else.

But I’m not sure I can sustain the further intense disappointment I have just been hit with, namely that the lab did not, in fact, freeze our other blastocyst. We have nothing, now. The letter that should have been sent out to us immediately after transfer explaining what happened, wasn’t.

They are very sorry, apparently.

I didn’t feel beaten this morning. Hurt, wounded, wretched, yes, but not beaten or despairing. I thought we had something left still to show for all the trouble, hassle, and financial wipeout.

No. Now: I feel really bloody destroyed.

I have, I know, felt worse than this in the past. Miscarriage pre-Harry was a bleaker existence than miscarriage post-Harry. I didn’t have the fabulousness of the interwebs back then, either.

Today, however: I do feel trampled hard into the floor. 

I still haven’t bled, although I can feel the mifepristone they gave me this morning doing something vague; I’m going back into hospital on Friday for the big misoprostol guns if nothing occurs before then.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends… close the wall up with our English dead.

HenryV Act 3 Scene 1

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