Q is for Quintessential Catharsis

Tw sadness and infertility

It was february 2018 when I had my miscarriage. We had been delighted that we managed on the first try and even as I cried when it happened, I thought that managing on the first try was *good news*. ”This means I can get pregnant easily”. Boy was I wrong.

The rest of 2018 was lost in several more attempts, but I never got pregnant again. 

In December the same year we started our IVF journey (one that we’re still on, I suppose, even though it’s been on hold for the past six months). Two injections a day, then three injections a day, medicine that made me anxious, bloated, hungry and sad. On Christmas Eve I had four injections and then we were off to Denmark. The last couple of days before we left I had cried, scared of dying. People have died during IVF or suffered complications. I was scared. And in some ways I did die, during that time in Denmark.

I was okay when I was there, I think. I was hopeful. It was exciting. I had a lump of pain in my lower abdomen that made it hard to walk. But that was normal. After all, I was trying to grow over 10 eggs in one month, instead of just one. We went out to eat, I have a silly love affair with Wagamama – a chain of asian food – and to my joy they have a resturant in Copenhagen. We went for slow walks and saw Den Lille Havfrue (The Little Mermaid). We joked that this was our honeymoon since we never had gone for one and that our little one would be a ”honeymoon baby”.

The visit to the doctor was… okay. It hurt. And I bled a lot. They gave me morphine which made me feel like I was enveloped in cotton candy. I kept almost passing out but they gave me fluid through an IV. After a couple of hours they sent us on our way. We celebrated. I felt so proud. 14 freaking eggs they had harvested. They told me they would email me in two days and in three days I would come back for the egg pickup. I was sore but happy. Excited. Finally. I had been trying all of 2018. Finally I would get to be a mom. Maybe. Hopefully. 

They didn’t email me after two days which was surprising but I thought ”no news is good news”. I don’t believe that anymore. 

We woke up that day, it was a friday. We went down to breakfast and I took my pill for the day. Pills that were preparing me for the pick up. Pills that made me smell like vanilla yoghurt and feel kind of gross. 

We came up from breakfast. I went into the shower. I remember because when I picked up my phone and saw that I had an email on it, I was just in a towel and still wet. I opened it. Read it. I don’t remember my reaction. I know I went down to the floor because I got lint stuck on my bare, wet legs. It hadn’t worked. My hard work hadn’t paid off. None of the eggs had fertilised. Not a single one. 

And in that moment I couldn’t handle it. My wife became very determined, sure that the doctor had screwed it up, she got angry. I got depressed. We went to the clinic to have a quick talk which didn’t exactly help. My eggs were immature, some empty chells, some just plain wrong.  All 14 of them. 

…and that’s when I died. I came back to Sweden feeling absolutely upside down. The meds had messed with my body so much one of my hands swelled up. Everyone wanted to keep a positive outlook whereas I just wanted to crawl up somewhere and die in peace. I didn’t want to be positive. What was there to be positive about? I had failed. I was the problem. Not to the doctor. It was me. 

It’s been six months and I never got over that feeling. The feeling of personal failure. Of grief. I live with it. Breathe it and eat it every day. 

It came back when my wife started commuting in the same time as I recived an endometriosis diagnosis. Which I’m now medicated for. Her leaving during the week put me in the right mindset for my old, latent, eating disorder to come back. So I stopped eating, with only my best friend in Germany really knowing and poor thing, trying to check up on me. Which I’m grateful for but it is not his job to care for me (I know you try and I love you for it). 

These past six months have been a roller coaster. That’s why I came back after new years and didn’t have any new year’s resolutions or anything. The old Kathy had died and I didn’t know the new one yet. 

I’m an adult. I turn 30 in 6 months. I’ve got 6 months to shape up. Start eating properly again. Try to treat my endometriosis as well as I can (this month I’m in pain in spite of my medication!?), find hope again. I am a happy person in spite of crippling sense of failure… I want 30 to be the best year of my life.

And it’s summer. In just a week and a half I’m off work for the summer holidays.

And my writing? I feel like this wonderful opportunity of having my books published that Triplicity Publishing has given me is so wasted on me. I don’t know how to market my books, I don’t know how to be active on social media during most of the school year, I don’t know how to be *an author*. How to be creative during the school year. The summers aren’t enough. And since January 2018 I’ve been crippled by infertility, ED behaviour or plain sadness. Mika was born from it.

But no more. Here it is. My truth. I’m acknowledging it. Sharing it even. Maybe I can move on now. I have 47 days of holiday, that’s a hell of lot of days to create good habits on.

Summer goals:

  1. Finish writing my still unnamed 1940s story.
  2. Eat healthy and not too little.
  3. Be active on social media once a day.
  4. Promote someone else on my blog once a week. A new author I like, a new book I read that I like, a good blog etc. Just talk about other people too. 
  5. Try to blog twice a week at least. 
  6. Finish writing one short story.
  7. Finish planning my zombie book. 

As soon as work is finished I’m going to make myself a weekly schedule. I like order even during my holiday and since wife will still be working, it’s important to keep busy. Maybe some day in the future I could be a full time author, then I’d need to be organised too. 

Let’s do this.

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