Approaching a new clinic, and something about hope

Yesterday I emailed one of the local fertility centers which was mentioned somewhere as a good one to go for reproductive immunology issues. They have their first consultation free, which sounds just about right: we are in a tight money spot right now, and I would rather learn in advance what they can offer me, if anything. So I spent two days preparing my medical records and filling their extensive questionnaire, and getting more and more depressed by the minute.

What, realistically, anyone could probably offer me at this point? I honestly have no idea. I tried the anti-inflammatory protocol and failed. I tried Lethrozole and failed. Maybe some new twist on the first one could work. Maybe we could talk about the natural cycle IVF. Maybe it's just a matter of persistence and trying naturally, again and again. And hoping, hoping all the time.

Today, looking at the joyous faces and rainbow flags in the news, I remembered the famous Harvey Milk speech about hope. "You got to give them hope". At least someone didn't hope for nothing.

But me. Honestly, how do I even dare to hope. Me, with my 40th birthday just around the corner, with my shitty tests and 5 miscarriages, with first betas testing lower and lower every time? I know I need to stop obsessing about it, but when my Facebook feed brings new pregnancy announcements almost every day, I just can't. All those people getting their seconds, thirds, and fourths, but why not me? And my compilation of infertility blogs, which I made just few months ago, is full of happy reports, pregnancy complains, and ultrasound pictures. I am happy for everyone at these blogs, and I wish them all the best, I just want to be there myself as well. Hope is such a heavy burden.

The merry month of May

May is not an easy month.
Two years ago, on Mother's Day, May 12, I did a test and found out I was pregnant. I was happy, I was naive, I thought that positive test equals a baby in 9 months or so. It didn't happen. I had my first miscarriage on Father's Day, later in June.
My second miscarriage in the fall of 2013 had a due date somewhere around May 20th (I did not really look at the due dates at that point).
And then there was my third miscarriage, on May 9th last year.
I am writing all this down, and again I cannot believe this happened to me. How did all of this happen? How did all this happen to me? How did I survive all this, in one piece, at least physically? Would I ever be able to pick up pieces of myself and put them back together?
...And I cannot even drink anymore. 

A year

Today marks a year since the due date for a - what word should I use here? baby? embryo? product of conception? - which became my first miscarriage. Last year my cousin gave birth to her kid on this very day, too, and I was crying and thought my heart was breaking again. Little did I know. I went on to have more miscarriages, and now it's all on hold; I em expecting my surgery, and I am not sure I would be able to even get pregnant anymore after that. Sometimes I feel like a freaking Ancient Mariner with all this history piling up on my chest, and with this overwhelming urge to come to every FB entry of moms of two and more who complain about their hectic schedule and sleepless nights, and tell them how lucky they are. I have managed to keep myself from doing it, so far. I certainly need to get a life. Some other kind of life that doesn't involve online... or babies, or playgrounds, or baby stuff in our garage. An adult, post-fertile kind of life. I typed this, and then I remembered a 7-months pregnant woman sitting down next to me in sushi bar. Of all places.
I just need to somehow let it go, let go of all these - babies? embryos? products of conception? - and my dreams for them. Let it go, there's life to live and a kid to love and take care of, and a husband to love, and parents to email and call and Skype with, and all kinds of relatives I need to keep in the loop of my and my kid's life if I want her to have relationships with them. I just feel so painfully unable to reach out. Sometimes I feel I have nothing to say to any of them.