Negative

For a moment, neither of us spoke. 

And then, as I sat there on the closed toilet lid quietly shaking, my brain pinged - we had another test! This first one could be defective!

But even as the second test started developing, the tears started to fall. The second line failed to appear and our dreams began to dissipate; the twins that we had both so clearly visualised and planned the rest of our life around evaporated in our minds, leaving nothing but an empty void.

We both called into work sick that day, as I cried almost non-stop and we tried our best to console each other. Nothing could have prepared me for how devastated I felt, and it scared me. All these years that I had been so unsure whether having a child was the right thing for me, I would never have expected to have felt such a strong, excited visualisation of how life could be once there was a distinct possibility of being pregnant, or such an acute, raw grief at that being denied.

At some point that morning, I had to make the phone call to Mrs Reddy's secretary to tell her the news, and I could barely get the words out. She was formally sympathetic, and told me that Mrs Reddy would be in touch in the next few days.

Even though I knew that the Day Twelve test was conclusive, getting my period two days afterwards was the final kick in the teeth - not least of all because it was horrifically heavy. My abdomen was sore and tender and Janis was practically visible when I was stood up, let alone led on my back. And to top it off, a few days in I developed the same pain in my right side that I'd had when I was down-regulating - only this time it was so excruciating that painkillers couldn't touch it, and I felt light-headed and sick. I managed to get a doctor's appointment and was referred for a CT scan for the following week to rule out kidney stones, but after a few more days of watching me wincing Gary decided enough was enough and we spent the majority of the Sunday in Cheltenham A&E, waiting to see an emergency doctor who told me there was little else he could do other than give me extra-strong suppository painkillers (bum pills!) until I could go for my scan on Tuesday.

When that day came - two days later - I was thankfully but embarrassingly pain-free, but went along to my appointment anyway. I was pleased that it was a standard CT, not a contrast one, and I was in and out again pretty quickly. After two weeks, the results would come back clear, with a suggestion that if there had been a kidney stone it may have moved on - and so to this day, we aren't fully sure what caused the pain.

And so, life went on and we tried to find the fun again, although tinged with grief, sadness and monstrous periods. Mrs Reddy had told us that we would be able to try a second round of IVF, obviously from square one again, and for a while we weren't sure if we could go through it again - me from a physical and emotional standpoint and Gary also from not wanting me to suffer. After some deliberation we chose to have a break of a few months over summer to give my body time to recover from the intense hormone treatment (and for us to go on another Last Holiday Before Kids), with an agreement to reconvene around August and giving it one more go.

But nothing could have prepared us for what was about to come.

The dreaded Two Week Wait

After that - apart from the thrice-daily progesterone suppositories - life pretty much returned to normal. I very gingerly went for a few steady runs, making sure my heart rate stayed low and I wasn't getting out of breath, and we went about our day-to-day. But there was a constant trickle of excitement that punctuated everything. I was carrying two embryos! Imagine how amazing it would be if we became an instant family of four?! Sure, everything would be really hard work for a few years, but we'd only have to go through it once. Where would everything go in the house? Should we upsize? 

But... what if it doesn't work?

After the transfer, we had been sent home with two pregnancy tests and urine sample bottles, which sat waiting patiently on the bedroom chest of drawers with specific instructions to test on the twelfth day. Whatever the outcome, we were to ring the Cotswold Fertility Unit; a positive test would be followed up with another test and scan before being discharged from the clinic and referred back to our GP. A negative one... well, we weren't going to get one! With two embryos hanging out in my uterus, at least one of them was bound to catch!

The days passed, and I couldn't help but overanalyse every little thing. I had a bit of cramping and my boobs were tender. Why did I need to wee so much? Could Things be happening?!

Despite waking up stupidly early on the twelfth morning absolutely bursting for a wee, I clung on for the two hours it took until Gary woke up, and we both tentatively approached the bathroom. The instructions stated to collect a sample of the first urine of the day, use a pipette to squeeze a few drops onto the test, and wait for exactly two minutes. Two lines, however faint, would indicate a positive test. One line would be negative. And so, I nervously weed all over my hand trying to aim into the stupidly small tube, and we duly carried out the instructions, putting the test on the window sill and waiting with bated breath - Gary checking his watch constantly and me resolutely looking away and forgetting to breathe.

And then, two minutes later, we looked.

There was only one line.