Grief.

My wounds that had not even begun to heal have been made even bigger.

Trisha and I met through the infertility blog world. I was drawn in by both her wicked humor in the face of pain and her soft spots that were so vulnerable they made me feel more human. We experienced our first miscarriages within weeks of each other. We bonded through our anger and pain. Then we met in real life and a true friendship was forged.

And then we found ourselves both pregnant again. With the same due date. We whispered of hope and excitement despite our overwhelming fears. We supported each other when the other was weakened by bad dreams or angst for the future. There was an understanding. A link. A bond.

In a twist that only the darkest novels would dare to take, we find ourselves tangled in the worst of nightmares. Trisha just received news that her sweet MB's heart has stopped. There is no cap to the amount of cruel that this world has to offer.

Now I find the grief I had for myself has shifted to my sweet friend. Her pain is my pain. Please offer her the support and love that she needs so badly right now.

Recovery: day 1

The D&C was yesterday and it's done. But not before my body did half the work its own.

I am in quiet pain now. The violent sobs and lashing out has been replaced with a sadness and stillness that is deafening. I only hope that healing comes swiftly. That I can somehow manage to find hope again. That I can eventually find peace with today.

Comforting a friend in grief has never been something that I've been good at. I've often just hoped that through my silence and quiet prayers, the person just.. knew. That they innately understood that I was there. That they could just feel my love through it all. That's not how it works though. For the person grieving, sadness and pain come from less, not more. It is a lesson I'll not soon forget.

The support I've gotten here has been immense. Overwhelming. The words that you have written saved me. The understanding and compassion got me through to the next day. The acknowledgement that I deserve to feel this pain. This anger. This blackness. That the grief is real. It made me feel human when I felt like I was less than.

For each person that took the time to read and leave healing words. For each person that reached out to a perfect stranger in pain. For each person that had old wounds ripped open yet still offered strength. Thank you. It seems insufficient compared to what you have given me, but it is all I have. And it is important for me to acknowledge what it has meant.

My body is now mending. I just hope that my heart follows suit.

Standing still: day 5

Fear.

The hate took hold by the time I pushed my way out of the Ob's office. The waiting room was filled with swollen bellies, new  moms, and crying babes. Fuck them. I wanted to hiss at them. I wanted to scream at those women that they will never understand how lucky they are. I wanted to claw at them and show them how their petty complains of swollen ankles or lack of sleep could never compare to my imploded heart. I'm scared at how full of hate I am. Fuck me.

In a situation where there is no right or safe answer, I think I'm going to go forward with the D&C. I'm terrified of this just as much as I'm terrified of the alternative. There is no comfort or relief with this choice, there is only second guessing and all consuming fear.

I started bleeding last night. The red blood, though I knew it was coming, made my knees buckle and a wail erupt from a very deep place. I'm petrified my body won't wait for the surgery and that I'm going to have to do this alone.

I'm angry at Mike for changing his mind on which direction we're going. I've been looking to him as the stable one, the logical one, the one that can make the right decision when I cannot. But his lack of being proactive has unnecessarily prolonged this process. Every second of every day, the fear of this dead thing consumes me. I'm terrified that I will forever blame my husband if it is too late.  

I slept next to a pile of towels and a bottle of Vicoden. This is not how things were supposed to happen. Since Thursday, I can't be alone without gruesome thoughts creeping into my head. For the few moments I have slept, I've been plagued by horrifying dreams of steep cliffs and dark places. I'm scared to close my eyes.

A year and a half of infertility caused thousands of hairline fractures in my marriage. Repeated loss has turned those into deep cravases. Mike doesn't understand my grief and thinks I'm over reacting. I don't understand his lack of compassion and question why he is so removed. Instead of finding strength in each other, we are further apart than we have ever been. I'm afraid of my marriage may not be strong enough.

My Ob didn't seem to think my Hashi's was to blame for this. So what then? 25-30% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. The number plummets to 5% for those that have two consecutive miscarriages. The stats are not in my favor. I'm frightened of what this repeated pregnancy loss means.

I feel sick when I think about returning to the clinic. I walked out those doors two weeks ago so proud, but today I'll be returning with my eyes adverted, shoulders rounded, and forever looking fearfully behind me. The appointments, the injections, the speculums, and pregnancy tests are almost too much to return to. The fear of continuing fertility treatments scares me just as much as choosing not to.

The girl I used to be, so generous with unsolicited smiles, compassion, and love for herself and others, is hardening into something that is almost unrecognizable. The irrational desire to lash out and hurt people that don't deserve it is bound to drive everyone away. I'm afraid that this hate and anger has forever changed who I am.

I'm just so fucking scared.