100 Words Per Mile: Failure

When the first IVF transfer didn't work, I got a little drunk.

December 5, 2020
9.00
1:26:39

Our first IVF transfer did not work. We aren’t pregnant. This fucking sucks.

I ran with Bill this morning, and we talked some things through, but it was difficult. He and his wife are expecting. Their baby is due in February. No matter what consolation he wanted to offer me, none of it made a difference, which isn’t his fault. My wife and I are having a hard time thinking about next steps. I hate thinking about stabbing her with all those needles again. I hate thinking about the knots and the bruises that will form, how they will pain her while she tries to focus on teaching somebody else’s children all day. She’s a champ. I know she can take it. But I don’t want to hurt her anymore.

I may or may not be drinking right now.

Okay, I’m drinking. I’m drunk. I’m writing slow because this requires a lot of backspacing. To fix the typos. My mind is working well, though. My mind is telling me that if my fingers keep tapping these keys, I won’t get on Facebook and post a status that says, “Fuck all you other parents who didn’t even want your kids.” That’s a bad idea. My misery is not their fault. Their joy is not an attack on me. But fuck, man. There can’t possibly be a god because this plan makes no fucking sense.

I’m not trying to sound vicious, I’m just allowing myself a moment to be unfiltered, which isn’t something I typically allow myself to be. The wound is raw and sharp and itchy and tomorrow seems like such a dumb day. This isn’t a loss, not technically, but it sure feels like it. There is something admirable in faith, in the humility required to give yourself up to something greater. I can’t do it. Whether it’s Jesus or fucking Q anon.