Just when I had it all figured out

The thing with grief is that you never know when or where it's going to hit you. You're bopping along thinking everything is OK and then there's a little reminder of what should have been. I thought I was doing much better, and not just physically. In fact, I was pretty sure I was fine.

And then WHAM! While tidying up and gathering the recycling, The Husband found the invitation to a wine tasting that we declined because I was pregnant. That's bound to happen. Adjust course, move on. Self, this is not a big deal. It was a Rhone Valley tasting anyway, and those are hit and miss at best.

And then WHOOSH! I knew one colleague in my cube of four was pregnant, but then I found out another one is too. She's due a few weeks before I would have been, so I get to see what I'm missing out on from six feet away, 40 hours a week. Deeeeeep breath. OK self, pull it together, you can do this.

And then WHACK! My father-in-law said our little girl is so wonderful, we should get working on another one. How sweet! Oh, fuck. Here come the waterworks! Come on, self. Dry off, suck it up, don't let your kid see you like this.

I worked from home today because I got a head's up that the big pregnancy announcement was coming, but I can't hide at home forever waiting to feel less fragile. We worked really hard to get pregnant and then we lost the baby. That's bound to leave a mark, and not one that's going to go away in a matter of days or maybe even weeks. I don't know how much time it's going to take, and I do know the only thing that's going to make it better IS time. I can't make that pass any faster. Anyone have any really great tips to hide the puffy eyes of crying in a bathroom stall at the office?

I guess it's better than limbo

Yesterday I heard the words every expectant mother dreads: "I'm sorry, you've had a miscarriage." On a positive note (?) it seems Mother Nature took care of everything for me so I don't need to have yet another surgery. I knew on Friday there was no chance we were bringing home a baby this fall so I had time to get used to the idea before I was sitting in a doctor's office, post-ultrasound, waiting for the final word. It didn't make the news suck any less.

It should take a few weeks for all systems to come back online. With my next cycle, I have to endure another round of waterboarding of the uterus to make sure no permanent damage was done. Assuming we get the all clear, we can start another round of treatments the following cycle. If it works, the odds of a repeat miscarriage aren't any higher than the rest of the population, so there is that. What I did not know until yesterday is that because of maternal age (I'm roughly 100 in reproductive terms), there's already a 35% chance of losing any pregnancy. I'd be lying if I said the thought of going through this again doesn't make me at least a little gun shy.

There is so much that my rational mind completely understands that is a complete mystery to my heart. I know this didn't happen because of anything I did or didn't do. I know there is nothing I could have done to prevent it, or stop it once it started. Because miscarriages early on are usually due to a defect in the embryo or how it implanted, I know it's probably for the best. However, I reserve the right to bludgeon anyone who says that to me thinking it brings any level of comfort. It doesn't.

Now that I've been able to take real meds for the pain I'm feeling much better. Physically. It's the rest of me that's going to need a little more time. I'll go back to the office tomorrow and smile weakly, avoiding eye contact wherever possible. I'll pretend I'm fine, that it doesn't matter. It was early days anyway. Just a blip in our lives, lives that will carry on. I'll put on this show because I have to. I'm not fine, and it does matter. It was early days, but it was enough time to plant a dream. I'm heartbroken, really.

One thing is true. Our lives will carry on.

That is one half empty glass!

Members of the medical community collectively need to work on their poker faces. After a night in the emergency room, tons of blood work and an ultrasound with some of the most sophisticated technology known to man, I have had the following conversation several times in the last two days:

Medical Professional (MP): *happyface* The hormone levels are low and we're not seeing what we'd expect to see on an ultrasound at this point, but that probably just means your dates are off!
Me: *straightface* We conceived through IUI. My dates aren't off.
MP: *sadface* Oh.

Forgive my relentless practicality, but at this point I wish they'd just call it. Instead of confirming what I already know and taking steps to hurry things up, I have been ordered on bed rest until things have improved for 48 hours. Or, and this part is unspoken, they get worse and I end up back in the hospital. Until they confirm a miscarriage, they treat this as a viable pregnancy. This means nothing but regular strength Tylenol for the pain.

I'm a little sad but mostly OK. I don't tolerate pain or limbo very well, and lying around all day gets old pretty quick. I'll be glad when it's over so I can start the process of healing and moving on. And, more importantly, trying again. Sure, in a hospital-induced moment of feeling morose I considered giving up on Operation Kid 2.0 permanently, but I just wouldn't be me if I let one little setback stand in the way of something I want!

Something else was supposed to be here

In this space, there was going to be an announcement proving just how fucking efficient I am: One round of fertility treatments = one awesome baby. He/She had a due date of October 24th.

Instead it's an update from my local hospital emergency room. I was feeling crampy off and on all day, and was worried enough about it to call my midwife this afternoon. She told me not to worry about it unless I started bleeding. So I didn't. I was getting ready for bed when it started. The cramping has gotten worse in the time I have been here. I haven't been seen yet, but I'm pretty sure I know what they're going to tell me. I think we all know what they're going to tell me.

When I get out of here I'm going to go home and hug the one I've got with everything I have. I'm not sure I've got the fortitude for another round of treatments, so The Parasite might be an only child. As I sit in these harsh, fluorescent lights, surrounded by the sounds of people dealing with their own shit, I can tell myself that it's OK. But I'm pretty sure that tomorrow I'm going to think it's really, really not.