Sometimes, I just need to give myself permission to step out of this world for a little while. After two years of it, it can be quite overwhelming. When I step away, I try to pretend it never existed. For a few days – a week – I pretend like my life is normal. That I’ve never experienced a gut-wrenching loss, never mind four. I try to pretend that the negatives on the pregnancy tests don’t bother me, that they’re what I want. That I’m a thousand times joyful for everyone else who has a baby, and don’t care that I haven’t had one yet. That the last two years have been spent blissfully with my incredible husband, that not a sad tear has been shed. That come February 11th, the only anniversary it will be is the day after I met my husband, not one where my heart was ripped out of my body with the passing of my baby.
That I’ve never buried a tiny little being, in it’s once-hopeful sac, under an old oak tree in a field nestled between hills.
Sometimes, I want to pretend that my life went as planned. That it didn’t take a detour down the dark and twisty road of pregnancy loss, that I’ve been on the sun-filled road all along.
And the thing is, sometimes it works. It works for a few days – a week – and I wake up happy for once. But the reality always creeps back. That relentless longing for a child never seems to disappear, no matter how much I pretend it was never there. I start to miss the people in this little virtual world of mine, the people that I am invested whole-heartedly in their lives and their cycles and their collective uteri. I can’t turn my back on it now. I can’t pretend it away. It’s who I am, it’s who I’ll always be.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t say: I can’t wait to be the fuck out of it.