It’s been a week since we found out I had lost another baby. In that week I haven’t cried as much as I thought I would. Perhaps it’s because I’m still not bleeding, so the physical part of this pregnancy hasn’t ended, and emotionally I can’t mourn something that is still ongoing? I don’t know, I feel in a strange limbo. I’m not as sensitive to other pregnancies right now. New ones, yes, but not ongoing pregnancies. With my other loss, any other person who was pregnant with sticky babies received my hidden wrath.

It’s unfortunate, that both my my failed pregnancies coincided with pregnancy news from other close friends. It’s unfortunate that I’m not emotionally… mature? Ready? I don’t know, emotionally OKAY with being around them. Everything that they say about their pregnancies, their worries, twists a little string in my soul, that leaves me thinking, “Oh, I wish I had that to worry about.” I am so jealous. SO jealous that many of my friends have no idea the true fear of losing a baby, losing a baby AFTER you have lost one just three months before. I understand the fear of miscarriage (with nothing to base that fear on- no previous losses), because with pregnancy SO MUCH is unknown. My OB/Gyn has tried to explain to me that it’s a miracle so many pregnancies actually get to the end point, considering the actual act of fertilization and implantation, and the delicate point from that to placenta growth is a very delicate dance where everything has to match up perfectly. I get that. I also read some stats that said subsequent losses after a live birth can have odds of up to 50% that they’re chromosomal and not actually anything that can be helped. Paul said  he quite likes those stats. I thought, “That’s another 50% that is unaccounted for.”

If we didn’t have Piper, I don’t know where I’d be mentally, to be honest. She takes up so much of our time that it’s easy to not let my brain run away with me and possible panic/fear/depression. Thank god for that.

It’s difficult for me to think that I was pregnant and now I’m not. Well, technically I guess I am. I just don’t know anymore. I feel kind of like a dandelion drifting through the air, seeing everything and not quite touching it, involving myself. I just wake up, get dressed, go to work, come home, parent, relax for a few hours until I can go to bed and start all over again. I just feel as if a piece of me is missing, and I’m walking around with a gaping hole, unable to be filled.

I so wish life was fair. I wish all wanted babies were sticky, and healthy. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of the new few months.  I wish I wasn’t looking 35 in the eye, and knowing the more this whole thing drags on, the bigger the age difference between Piper and a possible sibling. I didn’t want that. It’s heartbreaking right now, she’s gotten so into “babies”. Being their Mama, watching her rock them and kiss them and say, “It’s okay, Baby. I’m here now”, just breaks my heart. She would be a great big sister, and I am so resentful that she might not have that chance.

I hate this. I hate this so much. Hate isn’t even strong enough. I hate miscarriage like the fire of a thousand wars. I hate it.