I will be out of the house from 10am to 10pm, and there will be blood and tears.
Today is the first day of the new semester and the first day of my 4th cycle, post-miscarriage. Aunt Flo did not arrive with a bang as she usually does, but a small show of blood. Were it not for a third slump in temps, I might still be clinging to the delusional hope that this were implantation bleeding at 14dpo.
There’s no easy explanation for the past week. I don’t believe my symptoms were psychosomatic — because they persisted after I’d lost hope; so I wonder if it is a chemical pregnancy — someone on Twitter said she had a chemical pregnancy and that her symptoms were exactly like mine; or maybe now my cycle has changed and I get pregnancy-like symptoms the week before my period is due; or maybe, as my therapist suggested, this is my body preparing for pregnancy — except that I’m not pregnant. NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE.
And now that I am not pregnant, I will have CD3 bloodwork done on Thursday. FSH, AMH, estradiol, and thyroid. I am expecting bad news. Why would I expect anything different?
The only thing I have to look forward to today is my acupuncture appointment. Maybe she can shed some light on what my body is doing.
I don’t want to go to school today. At the beginning of last semester, I had known I was pregnant for a week. I don’t have the energy to sit in class, pay attention, make a good first impression on a new teacher and new classmates, most of whom are in their late teens or very early twenties. I don’t want to see anyone. I am feeling so angry, so disappointed, so tearful, so broken down. I want to curl up into a ball of hot, angry tears. And yet a tiny part of me — the usually cheerful, goofy Lauren that still exists somewhere inside, though most of you have never seen her round there ‘ere parts — says to look at this day as a fresh start. A new cycle means another chance.
But, oh, to keep trying and keep failing? This is not something I am good at. When I try for something, really try, and it doesn’t work out, it rattles me to my core. It fills me with a unique despair. I know so few people who understand what it’s like to not have a child and long for one. I am so envious of the women who have miscarried but already have a child. I do not mean to belittle their loss or imply that mine is greater — because that would be untruthful of me, not to mention, unhelpful and divisive — but it is also true that they also do not know the deep and unsettling despair of not knowing if they will ever be a mother. This despair persists after the acceptance that yes, miscarriage happened to you. It’s separate from pregnancy loss grief, and is distinct from the despair of not knowing if you will be able to have a second or third child. Their families might not be growing in the way they hoped, but they are still a mother to someone. I am a mother to no one. This despair seeps into the cracks of everyday life and pushes everything askew. It rears its head every month alongside the universal disappointment of finding out you’re not pregnant this month when you’d hoped to be. There are mothers and there are those women who are not but long to be. Some people consider me a mom to Bean, but I do not. Most people would not consider me a mother. It’s a sad, cold, hard fact: if I responded to the question “Do you have kids?” with a Yes or Almost I would be forced to explain what I meant. If you’re really a mother, you don’t need to explain — you simply elaborate. Yes, I have a 7-year-old boy and a 4-year-old daughter. No awkward silence, but happy smiles. I WANT THAT AND I DO NOT KNOW IF I WILL EVER HAVE THAT. EVER.