The bitterest pillI am not ok. I am very, very angry, so angry I can't breathe properly.
For two years we have thrown away everything else in our lives, we have lived from minute to minute and day to day, we have been unfaltering in our dedication. We have begged, borrowed and scraped together money for treatments, month after month after month. We rarely eat out, the only holiday we've had in two years was a junket. Two years of blood, sweat and tears later we have nothing but an excess of anger, bitterness and despair that nobody deserves to bear. I don't go out, I don't socialise, I can barely talk to most of my pre-infertility friends. They say that having a child changes your life. Well, not having one changes it much, much more.
It is very odd, at the tender age of 37, to know with almost certainty that you will get to the end of your days, your life's ambition unfulfilled. And no, I never did make it onto Top of the Pops, but that is no longer top of my wish list. Yes, there are "other options" for me to complete my much-longed for family of six, I hope I will look back with no regrets in ten years' time. But if there's one thing infertility has taught me, it is that there are no guarantees in life, and I certainly don't see donor eggs or adoption as a sure thing.
I am still waiting to bleed, still have dead babies in my belly. If I was a normal person I would still be blissfully unaware.