The Road to Rocky Part I: When One Door Closes, Kick Another One Open

On the day that I wrote this post, I was absolutely broken and defeated.  If I were in rehab, this would have been described as my bottom.  My bottom involved drugs, needles, wine and tears.   I was ready to live a different kind of life, one that didn’t keep beating me down every time I stood up.   I remember driving to the doctor’s office in the morning not knowing what the day would bring.  I was steadily praying that the next time I’d make the drive would be for my repeat beta to confirm a healthy pregnancy, NOT to do a baseline blood draw for my next cycle.  I was feeling in my heart that if this wasn’t it, that I just didn’t think I could do it any longer.

When I got the call from my doctor he started out with his usual, “Is this a good time to talk?”  Of course, I had been staring at my phone all morning making good and sure that I didn’t somehow miss a call. It just so happened that I was at the beauty school getting my hair done to pass the time.  If I was getting good news or bad, my trashy roots didn’t fit into either scenario.  I sure as hell wasn’t going to make him call back.  I needed to hear whatever it was that he needed to say.  The two week wait was coming to a close and I desperately wanted to be put out of my misery.  As I sat at the shampoo bowl, he stated, “I’m sorry.  You’re not pregant.”  I am sure that he said something positive and hopeful to console me right after that but I don’t really remember what it was.  I had to focus with all of my might to not cry.  I hung up to phone with a towel on my head, forcing myself to be void of emotion.  I am sure that the girls were wondering what was wrong, as I was no longer gabbing and joking.   I became a robot.  I obeyed when it was time to return to the mirror, declined when asked if I wanted a trim, paid and left without a smile or a tear but sporting a thousand yard stare.  I got into my car, drove out of the parking lot (God forbid anyone see me cry!) and pulled over onto the side of a small residential street.  I then proceeded to lose it.  I sobbed and heaved and snotted until exhaustion.  I was done.  I just couldn’t take any more pain and disappointment.

When I was able to regain my composure, I called Michael and cried the news to him.  I yelled into the phone, “I am sick of this.  I am just so SICK OF THIS!  I HATE THIS!!!  I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE!  I JUST WANT A BABY TO LOVE!  IS THAT SO HARD?  CAN SOMEONE JUST HELP ME FIND A BABY TO LOVE?  WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE SO [insert favorite explicative] COMPLICATED?”  He tried to reassure me.  He reminded me that we still had embryos in the freezer.  He promised that he would do whatever it took for me to become a mom.  But mostly, he was helpless.  In that moment, the world was an unfair sonofabitch, and I didn’t want to hear anything to the contrary.  I sent out a group text that said, “Negative.”

I went home and walked my dog.  I cried some more.  I put a positive spin on things for my blog, but in reality, I stayed pissed off.  I hated everyone and everything and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.  Then, after I was all cried out and trying to recover on the sofa, this text came in from my mom.

 I am sure that I only saw the message at 7:24, as I was pissed off at my phone as well (always the bearer of horrible news).  So, I called her. That’s when a huge door came flying open for me and I dove through it without really knowing what the final outcome would be, without thinking twice.