A veritable vortex of forces is sucking me in: my would-be first child’s 3rd birthday. The pregnancy I just lost in June (numero seis). My friend’s pregnancy announcement, which is just driving home to me what I lost in June and where I’d be now. The arrival of Aunt Flow. My failure to conceive after two cycles on clomid, which is mind boggling considering the ease with which I can get (temporarily) knocked up without it. The financial challenges of IVF vs. adoption, which are strangling slowly any hope I might have for the future.
Here’s the long and short of it: I’m swirling around in a tornado of grief and despair. Around and around and around I go. I feel trapped, as if – no matter my efforts – the tornado will set me down, broken and battered, when and where it pleases. I spent the weekend crying and reading and crying and cooking and crying and lying on the couch, trying to shut out the world. Oh, and did I say crying? Yeah, I did a lot of that.
(Side note: I picked a chick lit novel to escape into this weekend. Not even halfway through, I encountered a miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy, an abortion, and IF. Seriously, universe? MUST you fuck with me like that?)
I really am making an effort, though, to claw my way out from the tornado, however futile it might be. I made my annual appointment with my RE to get my Pap and talk about moving on to IVF (there have been some very promising new studies concerning IVF and RPL, and my doc thinks this is the way for us to go) when we can afford it. I’d like to start getting my body ready for it now, and am interested in hearing my doctor’s thoughts on what I should/shouldn’t be doing in the wait time.
I’ve also been reading some miscarriage/grief books, which have made me feel slightly less crazy (oh, you had ONE miscarriage and felt suicidal? For 15 years? I guess after six I should be glad I’m not driving my car off of a bridge).
Lastly, I’m buying flowers for myself, today, to remember that sweet almost babe (even if everyone around me has forgotten). Numero Uno. Three years ago this week, I should have been giving birth. Finding out about that pregnancy – shortly after two shockingly sudden family deaths – was the last time I remember being truly, deeply happy. Happy with my present, happy with my future. Oh, the joy that flooded into me when the word “pregnant” flashed on the pee stick screen! Dear sweet baby, how loved you were, right from the beginning! How wanted! Your daddy and I, we just held each other as the dawn broke and we waited for the alarm to go off. We were too excited to go back to sleep, dreaming of you and how you would change our lives. The highest high of my life, followed too swiftly by the lowest low. You’d be three years old! Trouble, I’m sure, given your genetics ;). Walking. Talking. Getting ready for pre-k.
I hope you are happy wherever you are, with your siblings, running as a pack. I picture you all, sticking together in the Great Somewhere, sticking up for one another when the other dead baby bullies come around. I hope it’s a long, long time before any others join you all. I love you. I always will.