I keep time travelling. Back to when I was a teenager trying to master a complicated piece of piano music. Back to when I left home and boarded a plane for Nepal. Back to a cold, winter day when I skipped work to find something better to do with my life. I find myself hurrying, rushing even, back to the times when challenges were difficult but always… ok.

We got our test results yesterday and the prognosis is pretty bad. Beloved Husband’s morphology scored a D minus. Never mind that his motility and volume scored an A grade – doesn’t matter how many space ships you build, if they’re shaped like beach balls and made of cheese, they ain’t ever making it to the moon.

It’s complicated and there’s conflicting evidence but what we do know is that our chances of conception are significantly decreased, and that’s without knowing what’s wrong with me. The specialist was sanguine and booked us in for various other appointments, I can’t remember what…

It’s only the second time I’ve seen my husband cry.

We haven’t told anyone yet and I was hesitant about writing a post because I didn’t want pity and sympathy and people coming back saying “I’m so sorry”. Not because I don’t want the support but because it makes it all real. It makes it something we have to face.

In the next two days alone I get my period, we have a long standing engagement to have dinner with our 8 month pregnant friends, we are visiting my BH’s best friend’s newborn baby and another newborn after that. I wanted to cancel it all (especially the period) but my dear, strong Husband said we couldn’t ignore the life that was going on outside us. We couldn’t stick our collective head in the sand and hope it was all going to go away. That we had to keep on living. Eventually I agreed, which is why I decided to write this post.

This morning I woke up at dawn. Every time I tried to get up and make tea, my thoughts pinned me down like the fat ropes of steel that harbour a ship to the dock. I lay, fixed, in the same position, for what felt like hours; scared to move my cold toes back inside the duvet, scared to bend my knees into a more comfortable position. I felt bullied, imprisoned, held hostage by my own thoughts.

The last time I remember feeling like this was when my best friend’s sister died.

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