I don’t cry much anymore.
Maybe because after we lost our boys all we did was cry all the time. I cried when we found out our most recent pregnancy wasn’t viable, but I didn’t cry at all while I was actively miscarrying.
Today a coworker asked why I’m frontloading my work year. I found out I was pregnant in August, so all I’ve done is work and organize myself to prepare for possible bed rest or preterm labor. She’s not thick, so I suspect she thinks I’m pregnant, which isn’t far off, but her email is about three days too late… because suddenly my work year has opened up. Especially considering it’ll likely take us awhile to conceive again. I was complaining to coworker 2 about busybody coworker 1, and I said out loud something to the effect of, “I’m not pregnant right now,” and it hurt to admit it out loud.
I came home to the kindest card. And I cried. Am crying. For my boys, who I feel like I failed. For the fertilized egg that failed to become a person. For suffering more loss–really, you RPL ladies are the strongest. For not knowing how long it’ll take to conceive again. For knowing that even if we conceive again our track record isn’t great. Still angry at myself for being so naïve to think I had everything planned out… that I would have a child by age 31. So grateful to know kind women who have passed through to the other side.
The months tick by. 3 cycles to conceive the blighted ovum (we thought we were SO lucky this time), 2 months carrying the blighted ovum. I know my extended family are watching me, especially now. I’m so tired of being secretive, but nor do I want anyone trying to discuss TTC with me unless they open with their own story of loss.
Childless-by-choice SIL is hosting a party in October and is inviting DH’s extended family. They’re local, so it would be a grave faux pas if we skipped it. Naturally there will be speculation on my fertility status whether or not I go, but at least they generally have the good grace to discuss me behind my back rather than interrogate me. I HATE PARTIES. Particularly parties that center around getting shitfaced, which this party will be. I should qualify that I didn’t always hate parties, but going out to get drunk no longer holds the same appeal it did in my twenties. Even if I’m not pregnant when the party comes around, I can’t have more than one drink or I risk becoming maudlin. What’s a poor babyless introvert to do? Go anyway, and grumble and gripe on Twitter of course.