It’s been a month since my D&C. That’s hard to believe in some ways. In other ways, I struggle to remember what it was like. Was I ever even pregnant? Was any of that real?
They say you eventually forget how difficult pregnancy and delivery are, that’s why you have more children. Do you ever really forget the pain – physical and emotional – of a miscarriage? My pain is like a badge of honor. I’m not ashamed of what I went through (am going through), and I’m not afraid to talk about it.
Every glimpse of a pregnant woman still makes me catch my breath a little bit. And that’s a lot of missed breaths, because the woman who works across the hall from me is due in about six weeks. She brought me a cupcake from her baby shower, and the beautiful, air-brushed, butter cream and blue “baby” border alternately make me want to devour it and hurl it across my office. I’d better eat it soon and put myself out of my misery.
On Saturday, we are moving to a new home, a house we hope will give us room to grow, however big our family gets. The stress has been high. But even when Dave and I reach what used to be our combustion point, we somehow have the capacity to step back from the edge, look at each other and smile. Loss has given us a new perspective on our marriage, our family and our priorities.
We’re going to try again. But this time, I’m not peeing on ovulation sticks or FSH tests. I’m not taking my temperature every morning, and I’m not obsessing over every tenth of a degree climb or fall. I’m not charting my luteal phase or marking off days of intercourse. I’m not checking the position of my cervix or the texture of my mucus. I’m not using special lubricant. I’m going to let my body decide.
At least as long as I can stand it.