Days

Some are perfectly okay, some are so hard.  I have the greatest dad in the world, no exaggeration.  There’s no pressure from my parents.  They’re great, they understand as much as possible for people that haven’t lived it.  But today is hard.  Last year we were still in the middle of a oh-this-is-another-miscarriage beta blood testing waiting game.  I’d taken a home pregnancy test just out of curiosity to see if the line would be barely visible or dark.  It was light.  But still, trying to be at all hopeful, even though I knew it was likely hopeless, I wished Mike a happy Fathers’ Day, regardless of what was going to happen.  My parents came over, we did dinner, the doctor called.  Numbers were going down.  I remember that it was so nice of her to actually call herself, on a Sunday, on Fathers’ Day.

I don’t even know what to say about Mothers’ Day.  It came and went and I survived it.  These days, holidays, are harsh.  It’s impossible to not wonder if it’s ever going to be us celebrating each other in those roles.  I’m still hopeful it will be, but I can’t completely quash the fear that we’ll only ever have heartbreak when it comes to us and parenthood.  My parents would be such lovely grandparents.  I so want that for them.  My dad’s birthday next month would have been my due date had the last pregnancy progressed, had it not instead ended on the worst Thanksgiving I hope to ever have.  That’s the only one that ever even got far enough that they gave me an estimated due date.  I don’t know if I wish they had never said it out loud or not.  Not that it matters.  Can’t go back in time.  Can’t just not remember.  Can’t erase these experiences.  Can’t undo what it’s done to me, how it’s changed me.  I hate how seeing on Facebook that my cousin is pregnant again doesn’t only make me feel happy for them (I am), that it also makes me sad for myself.  I hate these whiny it’s-not-fair thoughts, but…fuck, it just isn’t fair.  I hate that I’m envious of how easy it seems for so many, and I hate that I know that even if (when?  oh, think when.  WHEN.) we have a successful pregnancy, it will be so tinged with bittersweet, with worry, with waiting for another shoe to drop.  Will I be able to have some plain, pure, simple joy in it?  It’s a kind of innocence lost, and I mourn and grieve that almost as much as the lost pregnancies themselves.  It just shouldn’t be this scary.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.  I don’t mean to make it sound as though I’m as bad as I ever was, because I’m not.  I did end up finally seeing a GP, as the anxiety was really getting ridiculous, and I wasn’t sleeping for shit.  It’s been about a week and a half on a minuscule dose of sert.raline.  I’d like to think it’s helped.  It may just be a bonus placebo effect, but the fear doesn’t seem as sharp, as nauseating, that I have to actively try to calm my stomach from wanting to jump out of my mouth, taking my pounding heart along with it.  I’m sleeping a little better.  I’m glad I asked, went to explore my options, and lucked out that the doctor I nearly randomly made an appointment with turned out to be incredibly understanding and seems to actually listen and care.  Since it’s half the dosage they usually start people on, she didn’t think there’d be a need to actually wean myself off when it comes time, though I can cut the tiny tablets in half for a week or so, and I probably will.  I don’t want to be on it when we go to try.  I have a love/hate relationship with medicine anymore.  I used to be the kind of person who maybe took ibuprofen once a month.  Now, along with the prenatal vitamins, there’s the baby aspirin, the met.formin, the calcium supplements (I should get a B complex to compensate for the met.formin, too), and once September comes, assuming I don’t completely chicken out, there’ll be the pred.nisone (another minuscule dose, but still), and the one that scares me the most, the clo.mid.  Then, hopefully, assuming it’ll work, there’ll be the hep.arin again, and hopefully the prog.esterone won’t be necessary.  It’s just so much.  As glad as I am, as much as I try to be relieved that there are these things we can try, things I can do to try and gain some sense of control, if not actual control, over this horrifying tendency my body apparently has to refuse to allow an embryo to make itself at home in me for longer than a few weeks, it’s still just scary.  What if it still doesn’t work?  [puts the fear in a sphere and lets it roll down a hill]  It should work.  I have to believe it will work, even as I fight my doubt and skepticism.  I have to doubt the doubt.  It’s all I can do, and I’ll do it, when the day finally comes, and one day at a time after that.  In the meantime, the days are kind of killing me.  As much as I don’t feel ready to try now, the waiting to do so just ramps up the anxiety and anticipation and gives way too much opportunity to overthink it.  Part of me wishes we could just rip off the bandaid right now.  Take the plunge.  Give the fear the finger and go for it.  It’s a very conflicted kind of impatience.  Dread mixed with…I don’t know…hope?  I guess it’s hope.

The day will come.  Despite the days to come.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”
~ Ambrose Redmoon