I’ve had two very different announcements this week. A pregnancy one on Facebook with the standard scan photo, and a text from a friend, telling me about her miscarriage. What a stark difference. How exciting and wonderful for one person, and how truly rubbish and shit for the other. This is sadly just the harsh reality of life. Off the back of this, a thought popped into my head, it’s June. It’s June. This is the month I was supposed to be due, the month I was supposed to have a new baby. How had I forgotten about this, and now I’d remembered, how did I feel about this?
After our missed miscarriage, we flew on holiday. Not the best time to go away but hey, these things don’t give a heads-up or warning, do they? Timing aside, in hindsight the space was really good for us, just what we needed as we were away from our everyday lives back home. Whilst trying to deal with what had just happened, towards the end of our trip, my husband started to write ‘a plan’. He began writing notes, a to do list as such, covering what our goals were, as a couple and individually. Things that we wanted to achieve, something for us, and for me to focus on after our heartache. Sometimes when you experience a loss, it can help to have something to work towards, something to get you back on track.
Having told a number of people that we were doing IVF back in September, then experiencing a missed miscarriage in November, it’s safe to say we wanted to be more guarded before we undertook anymore treatment. Too many people knew before, too many people knew we’d be getting a result soon after treatment and that put a huge amount of pressure on me without realising. Knowing we had one frozen embryo to go we decided to do this round in secret – well, it’s not really ‘a secret’ but we made the mutual decision not to tell anyone. Not even close family, which was a big deal for me.
It’s been eight months now since we had IVF – which writing down I actually can’t believe it’s been that long now – and it’s been about five or so months since the miscarriage. Something I keep asking myself, something I keep sitting down to write about and something I keep being asked, is when we’re going to try IVF again? This is a tricky one because at the moment, the simple answer is, I just don’t know *shrugs shoulders*. I feel like the fog of everything that has happened, the fog of winter and the fog of never-ending coughs and colds is finally clearing, and it’s now that I can start contemplating moving forwards. So what do we want to do? Do we want to try again? What happens next?
Alcohol has always been a big part of my life for as long as I can (hazily) remember. It’s always been there, lurking in the background, at every family event, every BBQ, every nightclub, every wedding. A night out wouldn’t be complete without a drink in my hand. I can remember various booze related things growing up. I remember having sips of my dad’s beer when I was little, and sips of wine on holidays, I remember one Xmas Eve with family friends when I was about fourteen or fifteen, my siblings and friends children got me rather drunk, my dad had to help me walk home and I had my first hangover the next day – it was horrific, but clearly didn’t put me off. I remember my mum picking me up from a pub where I’d been with older friends and had promised not to drink. My wobbly bambi legs gave me away, that and the fact that I fell through the open front door. My teenage years meant underage drinking – always cider round the friends house whose parents would let us drink. Then there was drinking in the pubs we got served in and there was the raiding of drinks cabinets to take concoctions out in plastic bottles. Then there was university and my twenties, boxes of punch, shots, wrestling – but that’s another story altogether. It’s all been a rather wonderful, boozy cycle.