rivka

A month after I miscarried, I felt mostly okay. I'd read things that would refer to months and years of post-miscarriage grief and think "wow, I'm glad that my reaction has been milder." I was aware of potential future roadblocks - the due date from that pregnancy, the anniversary of the miscarriage - but for the most part I thought I was adjusting and moving on.

As we cleaned the old house, all last week, I became increasingly anxious about the prospect of doing a final walk-through with our landlords. I realized that, of all the people I know, they were the only ones who still thought I was pregnant. I made Michael promise to do the walk-through by himself so that I wouldn't have to see them. Or, more specifically, so I wouldn't have to see them see my regular-sized belly and my pronounced lack of glow.

I don't think there's anything unusual about that, but the amount of time I spent thinking about it and being anxious about it was kind of excessive.

The dolphin show on Saturday was about play - how dolphins play, why animals play, how play is used in dolphin training. There was a video montage of mammals playing. It included a few brief images of human infants. Boom: tears. I cried at a dolphin show. From, like, three seconds' worth of baby exposure.

Sunday, at church, out of nowhere: uncontrollable, but mercifully silent, crying. Not related to the service content.

The only thing I can think of that might behind the suddenly increased grief is that we are gearing up to try to conceive again. (I need to buy an ovulation predictor kit on my way home from work.) That has always been a fraught and anxious process for me, and it seems about ten thousand times more so now. What if we can't? What if it takes a long time? What if it's hard to even bring ourselves to try, and the whole... process... is overshadowed with grimness?

I shouldn't have to do this. I should be about halfway through my pregnancy. I should be wearing maternity clothes. I should have had my high-level ultrasound, and watched blood pumping through the tiny channels of a tiny fetal heart. I should know the sex. I should be making plans for who will take care of Alex during childbirth, and checking out new-baby preparation books from the library for her. I should be pushing to get my grant up and running before my maternity leave. I should be pregnant.

This really sucks.