Thank you. Thank you so much for the messages. You (the collective you) kept saying that you knew the sympathy didn't help but it DID help. A metaphor, if you will:
If life can be imagined as a painted canvas, indeterminately sized, then this miscarriage could be visualized as a smear of grays and black. A dark space, a space that hurts. And yet all around it there are these sunny flecks of color, each representing a comment from one of you, or a phone call, or little package from friends and family. When you tack this metaphor up on the wall and stand back a bit, the overall effect is much cheerier than it otherwise would have been. This period of time is lighter; I am lighter. So thank you.
A rotten thing happened. I can wallow in the rottenness or I can feel grateful that I had all of these hands (fleshy and digital) waiting to pat my head and prop me back up again. I choose to feel grateful. Of course, I also choose to occasionally go into the backyard and scream at the squirrels for incessantly chattering in the face of my recent tragedy. Fucking squirrels.
I have spent the past few days forcing myself to cheer up. Periodically I find it is necessary to remind oneself, over and over in a relentless monotone, what is so very GOOD in life, lest one dwell too heavily upon the crap. I have repeated a hundred times a day, "Patrick is healthy. Steve is healthy. I am healthy. I have a rich, full life that is daily filled with joy and wonderousness. My feet have apparently stopped widening. We finally found the perfect rug to go in front of the window seat. My mother is healthy. My brother is healthy. The purple orchid is blooming again, despite being dropped stamen-down in the bathroom last October... ." At first I found this comforting once in three hundred repetitions. By yesterday I was being consoled every twentieth time. Improvement, you see. Small steps.
Yes, I am sad. Do I have to tell you how much we wanted this baby? Every time I think about all the time and effort and (oh god) money we wasted only to arrive at this macabre Groundhog Day again (it's not just that I am miscarrying encore, it is the fact that it is the SAME miscarriage that I have had three times in a row- not to mention the first four), I feel nauseous. When I consider what this means for our chance to ever have another child I go ahead and throw up.
And yet, I am not only sad. I am happy that I have friends and family and internets that care about me. I am delighted each and every day by Patrick's sense and nonsense. I am sort of madly in love with my husband. The basement is almost finished. I am reading a good book. My mother sent about fifty pounds of assorted teas. We have fun trips coming up.
It would be nice to have all of this AND the certainty of another child. It would be de-lovely to get pregnant and stay pregnant and have a baby at the end of it. Of course it would. And maybe it will happen, perhaps we will get lucky again. We won't stop trying, I know that, although the next step for us is very uncertain.
Right this instant, today, tonight, tomorrow, I am just concentrating on all of the things, little and big, that make me happy. And, at increasingly more frequent intervals, it is actually working.
So I think I am doing very well, thank you for asking.