I am having a hard time.
Physically, this has been one of the worst miscarriages I have ever had. More bleeding, more cramping, more infected-veinedness than usual. I feel gross and sore and my ass still has lumps from the progesterone shots. I think they will be around forever, the only lingering testament to what $20K buys you these days.
I just hurt. I have counted my blessings until my fingers bled but I cannot seem to talk myself out of feeling sad. YES I love Patrick. YES Steve is... well, I adore Steve. YES I am grateful that we are all healthy. YES I like the new Persian rug and drinking wine and it will be nice to have the basement done but... none of these things are getting me out of bed in the morning.
OK. Something is obviously getting me out of bed. As far as the kitchen at any rate (hey, I added some recipes for you. more coming.) Habit is pushing me along, I guess. Responsibilities. But I feel leaden and poky and... sad. I didn't make an Easter basket for Patrick and I feel guilty about it. I will go to communist playgroup tomorrow but I will be sullen.
In the past my war-cry has always been: Never Again! Next Time We'll Try IVF!
Now I have no war-cry. I have no clear plan, no ace to throw that fate cannot fucking trump again.
I doubt my epitaph will read:
Here Lies Julia, She Failed to Have Second Child and Consequently Stayed Sad Forever
but there is a lot of ground to cover between beginning to doubt another baby is our future and learning to live with that fact.
So. I am sad.