3 Months Gone

We just got home from a trip out west to visit my husband's family.  Overall, it went really well and gave me some much needed distraction.  After a lot of soul-searching and a doctor imposed healing period, we've decided to move ahead and try to conceive again.  I'd be lying if I said the thought of being pregnant again doesn't terrify me some days, because it definitely does.  I know I'll be an anxious wreck throughout the whole process, but I can't have a family if I don't suck it up and power through.  I would do anything to have a baby at this point.  At least the next time, we will see a high-risk specialist in addition to my regular OB and we will be monitored much more closely.  We did another injectable cycle (Follistim) and timed intercourse since that's the route that worked last time.  The "two week wait" until I can take a test and see if it worked, as all my fellow fertility-challenged friends will know, is absolutely brutal.  Time drags on even slower than normal so it was nice that a good five days was taken up with travel and people I haven't seen in years and who never saw me pregnant, so they don't remind me of the babies.

There was one surprise during my visit, however, that caught me off guard.  I met with an old colleague of mine for lunch.  I haven't seen her for several years when she stopped teaching to stay home with her first child.  I wondered from time to time if she was planning on having another baby, but it never really popped up on social media so I assumed they were waiting.  When I got to the restaurant, I was greeted by my friend who is very clearly 28 weeks pregnant with a girl.  Literally, the first thing I thought when she told me was, "28 weeks means your baby is "viable" and could possibly survive if you gave birth right now."  Ugh.  That's how I see all pregnancies now, viable or not viable.  Life or death.  Hope or misery.  I used to get excited for people, even a little jealous, when they'd announce their pregnancies.  Now the excitement is replaced by fear and the hope that their babies survive.  How morbid!  I kind of wish she had told me before I had gotten there.  I don't know if I would've changed my mind about meeting up or not, but it would have been nice not to have been blindsided.  So for a few hours we ate and talked about babies, hers and mine.  I guess in a way it was nice- to have an open conversation about the whole ordeal with someone who doesn't understand, but still cares enough to listen.  I've found that is a rare event in my life now.

This morning as my husband and I were lying bed, perusing social media on our phones, I came across a post on my Facebook feed about a song a woman had written after her baby was stillborn.  Somehow in all my previous googling and song-searching, I had never come across it.  Today's the 3 month anniversary of their birth/death and of course it shows up now, almost out of the blue when I've been doing pretty well.  The universe has a funny way of never letting you forget that your heart will never be whole again.  The song is called "Almost" by Rebekah Garvin and it's honestly the most beautiful song I've ever heard, but it totally wrecked me.  I've only had the courage to listen to it twice so far, but I know I'll keep going back to it again and again because it's just so sad and I like to torture myself that way I guess.

We did our usual hunt for something to add to the babies' shelf today.  We found a few perfect pieces at Kirkland's.  I seriously am obsessed with that store! Of course, elephants are our go-to and I thought this little figurine was perfect.  My husband spotted the letters which went so perfectly with the elephants, so we got them both.

Here's the shelf so far.  A little sparse here and there, but that's what the next 9 months are for. The painting isn't really going to stay on the shelf, but it's there for now.

Well, I've survived another month.  I hope that when next month's anniversary rolls around, I'll be pregnant and can look towards the future with a little hope instead of complete sadness.