I did not acquit myself well at the RE's

I did an Equate when I got home from work yesterday. It was a stark white negative. A Big Fat Fucking Negative, in fact. This morning I did another Equate and a CVS test, the last two tests in my stash. Negative again on the Equate. A faint faint line on the CVS. Seeing as Equate is really the only test that has never steered me wrong with evaporation lines or other weird pseudo-positives, I tend to trust it.

I really think it's over. I think the embryo tried hard to implant and made it for a couple of days, and then failed.

I guess at least I got further than I have done previously, which is something to be grateful for.

So, anyway, I went for the beta this morning. I will know the results sometime this afternoon. My guess is that it may be something like 8. Or 12. I just hope that it's not in that limbo where they make me keep taking the progesterone and go back for a repeat beta when I know that'll be completely pointless and will just prolong the agony.

I was actually doing OK at the office, until I went back to the reception desk to pay. There in front of me was a perfect looking couple, in perfectly tailored clothes with perfectly expensive accessories. As I walked up they were inquiring if their daughter's photo was still on the baby board. The receptionist said she was. The husband sauntered back past me with his travel mug of coffee in hand and was all "oh look honey, here she is!" Then they started animatedly discussing the current success and waving their ultrasound picture around, and asking the receptionist to call one of the nurses out from her office so she too could look at the picture. At this point I knew I was falling apart and stepped back around the corner out of sight and started to sob. The nurse came up, rushed straight past me and started oohing and aahing over the fucking ultrasound. The wife was saying things like "we hope it's a boy this time". At least, that's what I could hear from the inside of my overlarge handbag as I stuck my head in rummaging for a tissue and trying to hide my face. Well, I'd have got my whole body in there if it would have fit. If only it was a teleportation handbag that could have whisked me away someplace, anyplace, else. They took forever over paying, and then finally left. I sobbed some more, then managed to compose myself enough to walk up to reception and get out a strangled "at least it works for some people" while handing over the credit card. Of course the receptionist was duty bound to say "it will work" in a soothing, concerned voice and "they tried many many times, and they did what you're doing now" which I took to mean they too had gone to another clinic. But I don't really know. I just wanted out of there. And frankly, most people I've met who've had multiple IVF failures are a damn sight more sensitive to the feelings of others in the RE's office than those two were, so not sure how well I believed the receptionist. I rushed out, tissue in hand, and sobbed in the car some more.

And now I'm at work, trying somehow to concentrate, and knowing that I'm going to fail miserably. How on earth do I get it together to do IVF#6? How on earth did this become my life?