I don’t want to write this post.
I don’t want to tell you about discovering bleeding this morning. I don’t want to describe crying in the shower, while hot beads of water beat down. I don’t want you to picture me lying on my couch, with my pillow and blanket and heating pad, crying and rubbing my belly. I don’t want to recount the conversation I had with my midwife about warning signs that warrant emergency services, and appointments for beta bloodtests to be done next week. I don’t want to remember the last two times that this happened to us, and I don’t want to remember how my body is going to feel as it says goodbye to the new life that I was so longing to meet and hold.
I don’t want to call our families, who were so excited at Christmas to hear our news that NewDotBaby would be a big brother, and tell them that he won’t. I don’t want to look at the new baby book I just bought, because it matched the one we have for NewDotBaby – I don’t want to look at the Little People Nativity set that my mother gave us so that we wouldn’t have sibling squabbles over the one NDB got before the holidays – I don’t want to look at the maternity clothes that are strewn around my room as I’ve been realizing my old clothes have stopped fitting recently.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to deal with it. But I don’t have a choice. I am having a third miscarriage, and my heart is breaking again.