The Pee Sample is in the Mail

Much as I would like to assure you that all is OK here, I have to also confess that the failure of our IVF attempt hit me much harder than expected.

That almost seems an absurd thing to type- I mean, what did I expect? That would I simply shrug, and accept it? That I would cry a little but would quickly "look on the bright side"? No, of course not. But I did underestimate the enemy. I somehow convinced myself that it would be more like a slap in the face, instead of this agonising blow to the solar plexus.

And I didn't count on feeling this sort of raw grief. It seems self indulgent to describe it as a bereavement. After all, there was no fetus, no baby- nothing beyond those two four and five celled embryos. And yet, that is the closest E. and I have ever come to parenthood, after waiting for so long. I'm not an especially sentimental person, but it was so hard not to treat the transfer as the start of...well... something more. I keep thinking of the ultrasound picture they printed out for us- the white blob in my uterus where the embryos had landed. Gone. Those two particular possibilities are gone- taking something of me, of us- with it.

Also, I think part of my stunned shock stems from the way the end panned out so horribly. You see, I was so intensely focused on the test day. I had all the different scenarios worked out in my head, playing on a repeating loop as we came toward the end of the two week wait. That I would get a positive on the HPT, and the nurse would hug me, smiling in confirmation. That the home tests would be negative, and I would go in braced for the bad news, which I would duly receive, then weep in the car on the way home. Or that the clinic pee test would be borderline and I would have to have a blood test after all. That we would then wait anxiously for ambiguous news, which in some cases is just bad news waiting to happen.

What I didn't count on was that I wouldn't even make it to test day- that I would fall so hard, with the finish line in my sight. I feel like an idiot- it never even dawned on me that my period would arrive when it did. In retrospect, it seems obvious. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, I bleed thirteen days past ovulation. And this time was no different, even with the twice daily progesterone suppositories supposedly holding the fort.

However, there is one other last absurd twist regarding the test day. I don't think I have properly explained is that the main reason the clinic requires a sample is because they have to formally report an outcome, one way or another. But E. and I agreed during the wreckage on Thursday night that there was no way in hell I was going to be subjected to making a special trip all the way to the OC on Saturday morning just for that, and it could surely wait until we could make more convenient arrangements.

So I phoned the clinic to discuss this. Given that I was a gibbering mess, I actually begged E. to do it, and he kept saying "But you can describe your symptoms so much better than I can." My symptoms, dear heart, were that I was menstruating, which is usually indicative of NOT BEING PREGNANT. But I didn't have the energy to fight, so I called them myself. I sobbed down the phone while they found my file, and I explained what happened. And then I requested that instead of me trudging to the OC, that E. be allowed to bring in the sample on Monday morning when he drove through for work. What the nurse said next almost made me fall off my chair with overwrought laughter.

"No problem. But if you want, you can just post it to us," she said.

"Excuse me? Did you just say I could mail in my sample? Um, how do I do that?" I asked.

And she said, '"Just put the lid on real tight."

Bwhahahahah! Pee tests by post! So accurate and reliable after two days in a hot sorting room and mail van! She didn't even say to send it first class or in a special envelope or anything. Just put the lid on real tight! Days later, I am still laughing about it. Even more so because E. ended up having to head back to the OC last night, and I forgot to give him the sample to take with him. So I may just go ahead and mail it after all. There's something so ridiculous about the notion that it seems a fitting conclusion to this whole unfortunate episode.

I'm not sure where we go from here- there are some difficult decisions to be made, and I'll post about it as and when things develop. In the meantime, I do feel that at least I am safely back on the Island. Waterlogged, tearstained and sad, yes- but among friends. The rapidity and generosity of your collective rescue mission has warmed and sustained me through the worst of the initial pain. I know there will be bad days ahead, but I also know now that I can, and I will, survive.

And for that my heartfelt thanks go out to all of you- more than I can possibly ever convey.

Comments

[MsPrufrock]

I don't dare compare disappointment over a negative test with an actual loss, but I had (naively) very high hopes for my first IUI months and months ago. I was told, more or less, that if I didn't get my period by Day 31 that I was likely to be pregnant. Days 32 and 33 passed, with no sign of my period. I began to think that I could actually be pregnant, and started to get quite excited at the prospect. I took a test on the morning of Day 34, and not only was I greeted with a negative, but my period showed up about half an hour later.

I spent the next few days grieving, because I had so much faith that turned out to be fruitless. When it was proven that I wasn't pregnant, I didn't know what to think. I had to keep reminding myself that I was never pregnant, and the loss I was mourning was just dashed hope, not a real physical loss.

I feel that way each and every time I'm confronted with a new negative, but the pain never lessens and I never deal with it better than before. I'm sorry you had to go through this, and I wish you luck with whatever decisions you make.

[mm]

Wow- the mailed urine thing is both hilarious and disturbing at the same time. I'm so sorry about the way this all turned out. I felt that same blow-to-the-solar-plexus feeling when my cycle was canceled prior to transfer. A negative outcome always hurts wtih this stuff, but it hurts so much more when you're unprepared. Be good to yourself.

[Pamplemousse]

It is so hard to be positive about the outcome yet try to guard your solar plexus at the same time. You take care of you and you are right in that there is definitely a grieving process to be got through - somehow.

[Manuela]

Oh, Mare... I wish had the ability to generate words that would serve as a numbing salve to this ordeal... to make it a little easier to bear.

I think bereavement is a very apt way to describe what you are going through right now... it makes perfect... though painful... sense to me.

Wishing you every ounce of positive healing thoughts I can muster...

[reprogirl]

It is a bereavment.
I'm glad you're still laughing.
Bringing you blankets and hot tea here on the island.

[patricia]

Ahh honey, I know all about the blows to the solar plexus. I am so sorry.

I'm glad you found something to laugh about. My thought is to be a rebel, and don't send it in. If they tell you they need it, you can suggest they come and get it. Also, you could say it got lost in the mail.

hang in there.

[Cathy]

Mare,

Your post was beautiful as always, and it is a bereavement, one that is often not acknowledged, often not even seen by those who have never visited the island. My heart goes out to you. I really wanted your story to have a different conclusion, and I'd also forgotten this foreshortened possible ending. If I were starting a new blog about this process, I'd call it something like "Never Underestimate the Vulnerability Inherent in Wearing Your Heart on Your Sleeve" and not "Honestly OK." What a load of naive crap! I'm smiling over here, but really, it does hurt, like crazy, and you (and others who have commented) are so right about the additional pain that comes from not expecting it.

I'm glad the clinic believes in the healing power of laughter. (smile)

Hugs to you.

[Meg]

It does hurt and I also feel it in the solar plexus, then it moves up to my chest and I feel like I'm suffocating.

You need to grieve. I've been messy for days,I think failed stims are the hardest to take as you have put your body and mind through so much.

That's funny about mailing the wee.

[Erika]

Mare,

You write so beautifully, even in the midst of so much brief and pain and bereavement. I'm so glad that I don't have to deliver the mail to the clinic - what's the postage for a pee jar anyways?

much love as always, and hugs

Erika

[Alexa]

Oh mare. My solar plexus aches for yours.

[ManhattanAnne]

Hi, Mare. Coming late to the comments as I've been mostly off the net lately. I'm so sorry for this latest disappointment. May I just say, though, that I don't think you've quite been handed a disembarkation card and sent back to the island. (Not that I haven't sorely missed your company. I'm dying to show you the darling little palm-frond shade umbrella I've been working on in my endless spare time.) It sounds to me more like the IVF boat that came to save you ran out of gas. Why not sit tight and wait for them to helicopter in some more fuel? Anyway, you hint at hard decisions, but I hope you'll have some good options & I'll be thinking of you lots in the meantime.

[Emily]

Mare, I'm so sorry. It is like a gut kick. And it's a loss, plain and simple. I understand what you mean about being blindsided by an outcome you didn't predict. I was telling someone just today that when I got pregnant last year and the beta was positive and a strong that I didn't even think about the second beta being anything other than o.k. because I was just so focused on a million different scenarios. I always felt that the universe found my achilles heel. So yeah, I get this. I'm so sorry you're back on the island my dear but I've been here so long that I've figured out a way to make gin from coconuts ;)

Kisses.

[Karen]

Mare,

I understand. The hardest part of my cancelled IVF was feeling that I'd set my expectations too high by imagining that I would make it to retrieval. It is so, so hard to adjust down what seems as though it ought to be rote. Much love to you and hope that you are sustained by the knowledge that people DO make it off this damned island eventually.

[Kristin]

Mare...I'm so glad you can at least laugh about posting your pee. Lots of love and lots of laughter are necewwary to make it through all this shit.

[chris]

Pee samples in the mail. I don't even know what to say.

I'm sorry, of course.

[Jen/Chew]

Pee in the mail? It all seems so archaic after all the sci-fi of IVF. I'm so sorry, Mare. My first IVF failure was a blow I'll never forget, and reading this brings it all back. Just remember you've got some good company my friend. And I've got a perma-hut here with room to spare.

[Jill]

I'm sorry you're going through this. And of course you are grieving. This was a loss of many dimentions - physically, emotionally, psychologically. Take care of yourself.

[LEB]

I'm just so sorry.

[Lindy]

If it's not too late, you could fill the cup with tap water (and screw the lid on very tight). I do like the idea of making use of the postal service rather than having to be there in person. Because, if you were actually there, they might feel the need to tell you the results.

Thought about you, well all of us really, upon hearing a particularly poignant Gilmore Girls line last night: "Bit by bit, it's getting easier to pretend it's easier, so easier must be right around the corner."

Here's to hoping that it is.

[beth]

Mare,
I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. One year ago, almost exactly, I went through what you are going through now (well not the part about mailing my pee sample). I remember the grief. I felt like my heart was broken.

It does subside. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but it will.

Take care.

[Thalia]

Mare, as always you put me to shame by being able to write with such clarity and poise in the middle of hell. I don't know how you do it. I completely understand about the kick in the solar plexus. This is a loss of a potential future - maybe not loss of a person, but loss of what you expected to happen. That's a loss. Infertility is one long loss going on and on...

If you feel open to sharing your address (via email) I'd love to send a care package.

[Jennifer]

Hey Mare, I'm so sorry that you are going through this. It's absolutely accurate to need to grieve. You have lost a lot along this journey and it's terrible.

I'm glad to hear that you made it back to your island. We're all there with you around the campfire.

[Martie]

So sorry.

[Erin]

It amazes me that despite the tragic events, you remain articulate and even manage to put humor in there.

You're my hero.

[cat]

Can you imagine if the lid came off in the mail? *snicker*

Ok seriously... every test that turns out less than we imagined is loss. It's loss of hope, of so many hopes and dreams too many to count. It's hard to know how it will feel until we are standing there and it seems it's always something we didn't expect.

Thinking of you and sending you wishes for peace and time to heal.