This Was Not Supposed to Happen
I don't think you understand. I diligently have looked for all the signs of miscarriage. This was not supposed to happen. Breasts sore = check. Nausea = check. Dizziness = check. Several nights a week, I'd lay with my hands pressed over my fundus, feeling the hardness just above my pubic bone and imagining the magic happening on the other side. Arms and legs forming. Pete would also participate and put his hands there, and we'd dream of the baby. We'd been bickering over names.
I had damn near panic attacks around week 5, and told myself, thanks to some advice from my best girlies, to think positive. I envisioned a healthy pregnancy, and each time I got scared, I'd tell myself, I AM GOING TO HAVE A HEALTHY PREGNANCY.
I suppose now I could feel like a fool for thinking that. But I'm really glad that I did. Really, really glad. It gave me piece of mind and helped me enjoy these past 3 weeks.
My therapist told me something comforting when we were talking about my last miscarriage: in the Jewish faith they believe that the embryo (when you miscarry) was a part of you as long as it needed to be. You did a great job taking care of it, but its time was up.
I wish our time wasn't up, little embryo. I hope she is right and I did the best job I could taking care of you. I was sure you were a boy. I had your name picked out and was lobbying your Dad hard for it.
This wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to arrive near our 5 year wedding anniversary and I'd begrudgingly have my picture taken on that anniversary, feeling like a total whale but managing a smile.