Today, it has been 10 weeks since I lost my Teddy Graham. And if I hadn’t lost him? I would have been 17 weeks pregnant this very day. But I only know that because I looked at a calendar. For the first time, I couldn’t just tell you how long ago my miscarriage occurred, or where I would be if it hadn’t. I had to look it up. And I don’t know if that makes me enormously sad that, little bit by little bit, Teddy is leaving me or if it gives me a small amount of joy and relief to finally have some distance from the most painful event in my life.
But now July is approaching and I will greet it with apprehension and remorse. All along, I knew that this month would be the one where I would mark the halfway-point in my pregnancy, and the one where I would learn if my daughter would get a baby brother or sister. Instead, we are back at the starting line of this race. Or not even that, really, considering that my womb is empty and ovulation is still a couple weeks away. To keep with the analogy, maybe we’re just now getting in the car, headed for the race. But whatever. I’m annoyed by it either way.
As predicted, my hefty optimism for the future took a sharp nosedive on Monday and I’ve been in a funk ever since. I don’t mean to be whiny and all woe-is-me, but that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling. It’s not just that I want to be pregnant again, but that I miss my Teddy Graham and the joy his short life brought me and all that he stood for. For those few weeks I was pregnant, it felt like all my dreams were coming true. And now it feels like they never will. I don’t want my daughter to be an only child. I can‘t let that happen. Perhaps another post will one day explain why, but I just know that I can’t allow it. And yet all week, I’ve been asking myself, What if? What if it does happen? What if we try and try and try, but it’s not enough? What if I some day have no choice but to give in and give up? I know the odds are in our favor, but I worry still. It’s what I do best, and this journey leaves so much time for it.
But for the good news… If you couldn’t tell by the title of this post, my dear ol’ period did arrive, despite my fears that it wouldn’t. It showed a couple days earlier than is average for me, so that was an unexpected and most-welcome surprise. Finally, we are moving forward again, though the prospect of all that that means somewhat sickens me. More temping. More OPKs. More waiting. More doubts. More disappointment. And if I do ever conceive again…more losses? Ugh. Shoot me now. (But please don’t, because I’m not ready to give up yet!)
Just to be clear, I have zero hope for this cycle of Clomid. Zero. Well I say that, but of course I have a little. Just an itsy-bitsy teeny-weenie bit. Not much, but it’s what is propelling me forward at this point. But the truth is that I have never — I repeat, never — ovulated on my first cycle of Clomid, even at 100mg. And I have always — I repeat, always — ovulated and conceived on my second cycle of 100mg. That means no hope (really) for this time and too much for next time. And all of it is killing me. I’m itching with anticipation and impatience. I want my baby now. Now, dammit!
Sorry. I guess the spoiled brat in me is rearing her ugly head. I’ll try to tame her for my next post.