First, thank you so much for all your comments and encouragement on my last post - they really meant a lot to me. Rucksack did survive the night, and was put back in as a 4-cell, grade 3 embryo - and I don't even have the heart to say that I'm PUPO.
After transfer last time, I felt elated, and I walked out into the early autumn sunshine to call DH and tell him the good news.
This time, I felt violated, and as I walked out into the cold, grey winter air, I texted DH to say the deed was done.
Last time, I had great hopes for our two little embabies, and although the process was uncomfortable, I was relieved that it was at least quick.
This time, there was more fumbling. Mr No Nonsense took out the first speculum he tried and called for a different one, and the car jack had to be cranked several times before he was satisfied with its positioning. I felt as though my insides were being split in two, and wondered if I wasn't meant to get pregnant because my pain threshold is too low to cope with childbirth.
As I waited for the embryologist to check that the catheter was clear, big tears started to roll down my cheeks. My overwhelming thought was that I couldn't bear to go through this again - not with our own embryos, that have such a low chance of survival, and not with donated embryos either. I lay there and cried as Nurse First Time tidied everything up, then I cried all the way through her spiel about what I should and shouldn't be doing for the next two weeks.
I don't want to go through this again. This isn't how it's meant to be. I'm so jealous of people who get pregnant the normal way, and so sad that we had to go through all of this - and it'll probably end up being for nothing.
The naive optimism of the first cycle has given way to the weary resignation of the second. Tomorrow I'll work on trying to be a bit more positive. For tonight, I need to wallow a bit in my depression.