Five beautiful days

For five days, five beautiful days, I was pregnant. We had finally done it. Three years, two IVF attempts, and we were pregnant. We were elated ~ no ... beyond elated. We were the happiest people on the earth for those five beautiful days.

I knew. I had always wondered, if I got pregnant, if I would know. And I did. I woke up a week after the transfer and just knew.

The day of my blood test, I drove shaking to the clinic, on the verge of tears ~ happy, nervous, emotional tears. I endured a long, last day at work, before driving home (again, on the verge of tears) to hear the result from Matthew. As I pulled up in the driveway, I saw something hanging from the doorknob. Baby socks, a horseshoe & curly ribbon. I opened the door, took one look at Matthew and just threw myself at him, sobbing. The relief I felt was indescribable. We had done it. We were pregnant, and the world was a happy place for us again, for the first time in a very long time.

And then, five days later, I woke up to heavy bleeding. And I knew. I knew, just like I knew that I was pregnant, that I wasn't any more. I awoke with my hand on my belly, and I knew that I had said goodbye.

So, a week after my first blood test, I drove once more to the clinic on the verge of tears. But not happy tears this time. Walking into that clinic, I felt physically ill. My chest tightened, and I felt absolute panic just envelop me. I had never understood before why people who miscarried needed time, emotionally, before trying again. Now I do. I can't face the thought of walking into that clinic again. I can't do it. I am not strong enough to go through this again.

This feels so unbelievably cruel. I wish we hadn't been pregnant at all. We are used to dealing with that. But to have had this snatched away from us is just devastating. I keep wondering what we have done to deserve this. Surely we deserve some happiness.