The hardest part — or maybe one of many — of struggling to conceive and sustain a pregnancy is hearing about others who have no problem doing it. I know all of you know this.
Today, thanks to the curse of Facebook, I learned of another friend who is expecting. I don’t know when she’s due, but I do know this: It didn’t take her very long to make it happen. And her daughter is just three weeks younger than mine.
It hurts because that should be me. I would be in my second trimester now. I would be shopping for maternity clothes. I would be happy.
And it hurts because I’m still a few weeks away from officially trying again, and I don’t know when another life will be created inside of me, and I can’t trust that I won’t lose it when it is.
So right now I’m really feeling the pain of my loss, and the weight of the journey that lies ahead of me, so deep that I couldn’t let my husband touch me when he reached for my hand, so deep that there are no tears big enough, so deep that I feel it in my stomach, my bones, and the bottom of my soul. I know I’m being melodramatic. But that’s what happens when I feel too much.