Loss. End. Final. I’m waiting for it to be done and done. D&C tomorrow then nothing.
What remains are the memories of going to bed talking quietly in the dark – is it a boy or girl? What will it be like? Don’t forget to say goodnight to Olive. The joy of seeing that second line emerge for the first time in the white nothing of the window after 2 minutes that seemed like 2 hours then waiting 6 hours that seemed like 6 months to test again to see if it would happen again, and again, and again.
I wish I had never wondered what we’d name it or thought about how we’d care for it or arranged the furniture in the room in my mind. Now I look in and only see what I wanted it to be. Only remember the 7 weeks it was, not all the time before when it wasn’t.
I’m coming to terms with the physical reality. I’m choosing to accept that this happens and that there was likely nothing I could have done. It’s a pointless game guessing – what I could have done differently? – And if he or she was not going to be well enough to make it all the way to the end of the pregnancy – better now than later.
I’m alright with the tears and the sadness and the pain. They’re almost comforting.
I know I’ll recover and my body will forget it was ever here.
It’s what could have been that’s keeping me up at night.
It’s the hope that kills you.