I went to the doctor yesterday and it's official:
I have an acute case of Old Hag-itis and it's causing my Uterus Assholicus to flare up. Lucky for me, there's no cure.
I know now why I was dreading going to the doctor yesterday. Somewhere in my mind, I knew what she was going to tell me and I didn't want to hear it. There was no real reason for the miscarriage other than something went terribly wrong in development, my body recognized that this would be a baby who would suffer horribly, and it stopped that from happening.
I have to frame it that way so that I can be sane, because saying my body haaaaaaaaates being pregnant and will kill all new life is just depressing. I can handle having Old Hag-itis and even Uterus Assholicus as long as I don't think about my body killing babies.
Because that's what it boils down to. Any woman of child-bearing age is susceptible to miscarriage due to chromosomal abnormalities. That's the polite way of saying that things would be so majorly fucked up that Mother Nature took pity on your soul and ended it before it got ugly. So even though I have the clotting disorders that make me prone to that certain kind of miscarriage, the chromosomal abnormality miscarriage is always there.
And it stands to reason that since I also suffer from Old Hag-itis, there is a greater chance than zero that I will miscarry again. As my eggs age, they are less likely to cooperate and give me a healthy baby. The thought makes me look at Sofia as truly a miracle child.
The doctor wanted me to get an ultrasound to make sure everything was out of there, but then I showed her a picture of the tissue, because of course I took a picture. I had no idea what it was, I didn't know if I should be worried and I certainly had no intentions of saving it. I'm actually glad I did, because it turned out to be an intact gestational sac and once she saw it, she said she was confident that nothing else was inside of me. She does want me to get a blood test to make sure my levels have dropped down to zero, but I'm kind of wondering what's the point. I'm sure there's nothing left, I'm sure my body is working overtime to get back to its non-pregnant state, the state that it loooooves so much. Fucking body.
I left the doctor's office and started home and that's when it hit me. There's no reason for the miscarriage. It'll probably happen again and there's nothing I can do about it.
And I started crying.
Sofia was asleep in the backseat and instead of going home, I just kept driving around, having my mental tantrum.
I thought I was done with these stupid miscarriages. That was the fucking deal - do the shots, get the baby. There was no mention of more fucking miscarriages.
How many more am I going to have? How many more can I take? What is this doing to my body long-term? What is wrong with me?
This is so fucking unfair. Why me? But then, why not me? Is this what I get, for wanting more than what I have in Sofia? Don't be dumb, that's not how it works. Or is it? STOP IT.
Gah, am I really going to have more miscarriages? Am I really going to have to do this again? For real, how many more times do I have to DO this? What if I end up with some god-awful number like ten miscarriages? What would that even look like?
But I can't give up yet. Can I? Will the desire in my heart go away? Will I always long for that little soul? Will I be one of those old women with sadness in her eyes? That can't be me. I don't want that to be me.
What if that's me?
I cried softly, hoping not to wake Sofia. I got Chick-Fil-A for dinner, because I certainly was not in the headspace to cook, and by the time we got home, she was awake and calling out "Chicken! Chicken!"
Drew had a work dinner so it was just the two of us and I have to admit, I was more than a little emo, gazing at her all deep and pensive-like, trying to see into our future and wondering how it would be if it were just the two of us forever. Metaphorically of course, because in real life it's the four of us, but you know what I mean.
Sofia's new thing is dancing and every time I turn around, she's right there with her arms up, her angel face looking up at you and that perfect little mouth saying "Dance! Dance!"
So after dinner I turned on Pandora, scooped her up and we twirled in the kitchen. Her laughter was so light and carefree and as I caught glimpses of us in the mirror, the love I felt for her threatened to have me start bawling right then and there. But instead, I laughed.
That night, my daughter and I danced and danced and laughed and laughed and I felt a small peace return to my heart.