A few weeks ago we found out that our ivf had failed. I haven’t really had time to grieve, but while a life briefly started is not the same as one that’s been lived, it felt like a little death. A little sorrow. But nothing to bury and nothing to mourn. Just a continuing of what had gone before, with all those hopes flickering into darkness.
It is a death. It was alive. Nearly. It nearly was properly alive. It just didn’t quite get there. Three and a half years of sacrifice, torment, traumatising and regret, for nothing. A blankness. A nothing. The absence of something. A void of something that was never there but which we wanted so very desperately to be there.
It’s hard to process some of the things that happen to you. You wait for the numbness to recede and the waves of pain to remind you you’re alive. What does it mean – something, anything? Maybe nothing. But you feel it all the same.
It’s only by risking pain that you ever get anything. You know what you’re getting yourself into. You know what could happen.
All you have left is a wish that things could have gone differently. For me, it’s so much easier. My body has not been pumped full of hormones. I didn’t bleed out what could have been. But still the pain. Still the pain.
How do you get over something like this? I don’t know. You just go to sleep and wake up. You dream. Each second you spend is one step further away from the remorse, desolation and emptiness in your heart. Time passes and you keep on going. Because you have to. But fucking hell it hurts.