The last couple of months, I’ve refrained from writing too much. Not that I wrote all the time, but I certainly did so more than once a month. For me, it was simply an act of self-preservation. Everyone does what they have to do to survive and for me that has always been finding the escape route. Also, I tried not to add negativity to those who already struggle and not remind those of who have escaped the trenches of where they had been.
This is the hard part. This is the part that kills me.
I knew, for a very short time, what it was like to escape those trenches. However, I do not know this feeling any longer.
A few short weeks ago, I got my first ever positive pregnancy test. Out of nowhere. 100% natural conception. Of course I didn’t believe it, because, hey this is me we are talking about–the poster child for unexplained infertility.
The beta test confirmed the pregnancy test. The 6 week ultrasound confirmed it. My body confirmed it.
Sadly, the 8 week ultrasound did not. My baby measured at 7 weeks, 4 days instead of 8 weeks, 2 days. There was no heartbeat.
There’s not much left for me to do. My D & C is tomorrow morning, that is if I can manage to have a conversation with the receptionist without falling apart on the phone like I did earlier. I’m not really sure why I’m having it done. My baby is gone; I know that. He/she isn’t going to come back. Mr. RE tried to offer some unfeeling, scientific, medical reason for all of this, but I didn’t hear a word he said. Something about cell division. Something about chromosomes. Who knows? I guess this procedure is supposed to give us answers about what went wrong. It really doesn’t matter because I have learned there are no answers or at least any that benefit me in any shape or form.
So there we have it. My life. The one that I thought couldn’t get worse, the one that I thought was getting better. Obviously, this was originally supposed to be a post that announced good news, but once again I can only bring the bad.
I always thought that the worst thing that could happen to a woman would be what had happened to me: waiting two and a half or more years to even create a baby. Now I know this isn’t true. The worst thing is waiting two and a half years to create a baby and then having that dream taken away as soon as it comes to be.
I don’t know if I’ll ever conceive again and actually I think I would be afraid to. I proceeded through this with cautious optimism but now I can only move ahead with fear. I wanted to be happy for this pregnancy, short-lived as it was, but I always suspected the worst in the back of my mind. As much as I still want a child, I can’t see myself moving forward in any situation that has the potential to rip my heart into shreds.
So, I don’t know what kind of writer this will make me nor do I know what kind of supporter this will make me. I am happy for all of your good news, even if I can’t show it and I also grieve with those who grieve. The rest is—well, I just don’t know. I think I just need to self-preserve.