Being out in the world occasionally makes me feel like a terrible person.
For example, my pregnant coworker. I know, absolutely, that it isn’t her fault that I don’t have my baby. It’s completely illogical for me to feel the way that I do. The two things, her pregnancy and mine, are separate. And yet…she just needs to have her baby and go away. I’m not proud of the strength of this feeling.
Four days after the baby shower I broke down and asked a colleague to remove the decorations from our staff room (because she’s awesome, they were gone by my next break). I couldn’t spend another minute in the shadow of a huge banner proclaiming “Baby Boy!” and a string of blue carriages as I tried to eat a cup of yogurt in peace. There’s a limit…there’s just a limit to what I can take.
Watching that woman’s physics-defying belly out of the corners of my eyes as we coexist in the hallways, I feel a visceral yearning, sharper than it’s been in weeks. She gets to have her baby boy, and I want mine. I want my son. I miss my son.
Lauren and I are both quietly aware that we’re gearing up for some ouchy days ahead. My due date will arrive soon, and a few weeks later it will be Christmas. There’s no acceptable answer to the question of how we will spend the holidays…all of the available options are painful. We were going to spend them as a family of three, and now we won’t.
And somehow, we’re mustering up some hope anyway. We’ve taken deep breaths and chosen a new donor (there is no evidence at all that what happened to Ezra was genetic, but we decided not to risk it.) We’re going to give it another go, probably in the next few weeks. It’s the most terrifying thing in the world, to try to choose to believe that we won’t lose again. To choose optimism in spite of fear, in spite of all the things that happened to all the babyless mamas in my grief group, all those lost children. To choose hope. We’re trying. We’re trying to hope.