I’m among the women who were told it was ok to “try right away” after miscarriage, so as soon as my body was done ejecting contents of our blighted ovum last week, my partner and I were back to business as usual.
”You bought new panties?”
”Yeah. To try and make it fun again.”
”Oh. Yeah, that’s a good idea, I guess...”
“Right? REMEMBER FUN?”
(awkward silence followed by intercourse)
Sometimes I think of my loss in terms of science- that it happens in nature all the time, and that there’s no good in taking it personally. Monkeys miscarry. If they go through this, anyone can.
But at other moments I freak out and convince myself that it happened because I kept my prenatal vitamins near our radioactive microwave during the 6 months I took them and might as well have rubbed uranium on my womb, or that maybe the embryo didn’t make it to fetus status and disintegrated because I went on a 9 hour road trip or breathed too much air freshener at my job.
Perhaps the embryo sensed that its would-be parents bicker too much, plus our apartment is messy. Did it change its mind?
Maybe it reneged when my cellphone sent one too many radio waves through my purse and into my endometrium.
I even find myself wondering if people had ill thoughts towards me, or some random stranger I cut off getting on the train gave me the evil eye and it “reached the baby.”
It’d be great to shift gears from this cycle of thinking but it hasn’t been that long since the hard-won contents of my uterus emptied themselves.
Even if I could sweep these emotions away with a magic broom, I‘m not sure what would come along to replace them. Probably just raw anguish. It‘d be the emotional equivalent of looking at the sun for an extended time period.
I look at my “ladies’ app” a few times a day and try to retrace my steps.
What did I do differently a couple months ago when I finally conceived after all that trying? What were the signs that it had worked? Why did it backfire in the end?
The infuriating truth is that, when compared to previous months, nothing I did during the month of my doomed BFP was especially different. Technically we BD’d less, but big whoop. I‘ve come to believe thst, short of timed intercourse and healthy living, at best it’s all just a crap shoot.
All this calendar gazing, the strategic prepping of softcups with gloopy school gluey Preesesd, the supplement popping and fastidious caffeine avoidance... I guess one way to look at it is a revisitation of self discipline. If I were to apply this much purpose and attention to my professional life I’d be the CEO of Disney by now or something. If I could have projected these passions onto fitness and general wellbeing I might be a renouned personal trainer at this stage.
Instead, I am a childless late-30’s educator with a very ordinary day-to-day life but extraordinary regret that I was so naïve about what it would take simply to biologically become a parent. Scarier yet, I’m just scratching the tip of the fertility iceberg. This is a picnic compared to what lays in store for many of us.
Babies. What a scam.
Ugh. Listen to me. Downersville USA.Please go watch a heartwarming romantic comedy under a fluffy blanket with snacks and know that in spite of all the heartache, hope springs eternal. I’ll be the first to admit it.