I have a schedule that makes most others salivate with envy. I'm a School Psychologist with a teacher's 6 1/2 hour work day (although this is in theory, as my day is always much longer than that) and summers off. Yes, I'm in my pajamas as I'm typing this. But before you jump into the crowded pool of folks who would gladly give their right pinkie toe to trade spaces with me (at least for the summer), I implore you, don't. Please save yourself a funny limp. In fact, let me instead give my left pinkie toe to enter your workplace for some sort of distraction. I don't care what you do for a living. I'll take what I can get and I'll pay a high price for it.
The last day of work before vacation was in the middle of June, the day before my ultrasound. After four years of fertility issues and treatment, I was pregnant and bordering on simultaneously being deliriously happy and sickeningly anxious. It's a funny line to tread, but believe me, it is possible. My 30th birthday party was scheduled for the day after the ultrasound and seeing as how my not consuming Margaritas to usher me into the next decade would be highly suspect to friends, we decided to announce the pregnancy there. After all, I would have been almost 11 weeks along and we had already heard the strong, beautiful heartbeat early on, so it made sense. It was to be a grand celebration, months in the making. But it never came.
The ultrasound, which fell on Friday the 13th (I am slightly superstitious, especially now), confirmed what I knew in my heart to be true. The strong, beautiful heartbeat had disappeared. Before that day, there were no physical signs or symptoms of the event, just the incessant feeling of foreboding that finally became reality as I stared up at the almost-blank ultrasound screen. I left the office in a tearful daze, hand-in-hand with my husband, who drove us home and called friends and family to cancel the party. There was no way I could rally the energy or even the care to go through with it. I spent the weekend dreading the D&C to be performed that Monday, but filling my days to the point of exhaustion so I wouldn't be consumed by it. At the time, I was so thankful that I had the summer off to recover, but now I'm not so sure.
The days are long. Quiet. No matter how much I do, it's still there: the grief, which seems to be deepening over time. My brain is a busy one, that frequently over-analyzes and picks apart, especially when there is time. Summer gifts this to me. And while I believe that one should form insight, there is a point at which something has been over-analyzed and picked apart too much. I think I've reached that point and it needs to stop. So, I try to fill my days, but there is only so much a person can do.
Even after four years, I still had hope, still looked forward, and now I seem to be losing that. I need it back again. I've heard it too many times to count: "Well now you know you can at least get pregnant." At least? Pregnancy is not my final goal. Motherhood is. I need to know, to feel that it will happen. So, I spend the whole of my energy trying to hold onto hope, trying to make my life now more than just a distraction.