Bad news. The number went down to 45. Another chemical pregnancy. F-ing unbelievable.
I’m angry. Angry to be jerked around, to be given false hope, to get everyone rallying around me again and again, all for nothing. A lot of screwing around for absolutely nothing.
All the beautiful symbolism of New Year’s and the sunrise and renewed faith and getting on the bandwagon with good friends already expecting–out the window. It was so nice while it lasted.
And I’m finding this out on day one of a five day meeting so I can’t fall apart. I’m actually not crying because I am so incredibly mad.
I think I’ll leave it there. I’m supposed to re-test next week to make sure the number goes all the way down before trying again, which I’m sure I will do, like an addicted gambler running up debts. But is this really in the cards for me? How much more can I take?
Meanwhile, I’ll be throwing myself into work and trying to forget the whole thing for a while.