Healing: 2 steps forward, 1 step back

I thought my next post was going to be about how much better I was feeling compared to the past few years. How wonderful it felt to not be fighting the drowning feeling of sadness all the time. To be free of obsessing over what our next steps should be, what progress I should be making on a new doctor or adoption or egg donation or some other Plan B just.in.case, what new diet or massage or vitamin I should be trying to "fix" my broken body. To not be forcing myself to find enjoyment in the life I had, when all I really felt was yearning for the life I wanted. 

  

Because all these things are true. I HAVE been feeling better, feeling joy. Not only tolerating but starting to enjoy the new attentiveness from coworkers and strangers alike - the extra smiles, doors being held open, the eager small talk. Feeling like I actually belonged in my prenatal yoga class, instead of an impostor. Starting to allow myself to plan and imagine and make steps towards preparing for our new future. And loving this little boy, oh the love - every kick, every wiggle.

  

Which is why what happened Saturday morning caught me so off guard. It was a nice sleepy, cloudy, no-where-to-rush-to kind of morning. Mr. B was under a blanket on the coach watching TV when I joined him with a bowl of cereal. He was flipping channels, and landed on How.ard Ste.rn's Pri.vate Pa.rts, *right* at the exact scene where his wife has a miscarriage. Now I've seen this movie before, and certainly when I've been in a much worse place, and I don't even really mind the way they handle it in the movie. My first thought was even "thank god I'm in a place where this isn't so painful to watch." But before my head could even catch up to what was happening with my body, I started to feel uncomfortable. A tightness in my chest, a sudden loss of appetite for my cereal. I find my voice to ask hubs to turn the channel at least until this part is over, but as he was flipping through the guide I could still hear the audio. His wife sobbing, him consoling her with it being nature's way and her body doing what it should, making inappropriate but-I've-been-there-to-just-get-through-it jokes about naming and giving the grandparents a picture of the passed tissue.

  

And I felt not only tears spring to my eyes, but sobs well in my throat as I make a sudden exit to our bedroom. And I sob. And sob. And sob. I don't even know what I'm crying about as I sit on the edge of our bed, rocking myself back and forth. I found myself rubbing my belly, and whispering aloud, "Please baby get here safe, please baby please, we love you so much." A good 15 minutes must have passed, and I could not pull myself together. I'm still crying when I find my husband in the kitchen, and finally find the words to what is happening. 

  

I'm still really sad about all that we've lost, and still really scared that we're going to lose this too.

  

And I've been off my game ever since. The constant underlying feeling of anxiety and fear is back. Instead of merely reveling in the little kicks and turns in my belly, I find myself craving ever more of them, needing more and more reassurance, fighting panic at every quiet moment.

  

If I take a good honest look at myself, it's probably not a coincidence that this has come at the end of a week where I finally brought myself to:

- preregister at the hospital

- sign up for the expectant parent classes

- agree to having a baby shower by my mom and SIL at end of October

- researching stores and items for a registry (since invites going out soon)

  

I was proud to have checked some things off my list, and had such ambitions for getting a good jump on the registry over this long weekend, not to mention doing some purging and cleaning around the house (the form my not-yet-nesting seems to be taking). Yeah, not so much of that happening now, back in this place where making preparations feels so scary and presumptuous. 

  

I also probably shouldn't ignore as a possible factor that the holiday weekend marks the 3rd anniversary of the due date of our first pregnancy, when I thought it was so cute and meant-to-be to be due on Labor Day. It's also the due date of our 3rd pregnancy, though I didn't think it was as cute the second time around, to be sure.

  

Not that I ever believed otherwise, but this weekend is driving home that there is no quick fix or "cure" for the battle wounds of RPL. That this healing is a delicate work in progress that cannot be rushed or taken for granted. I'm allowing myself to lay low and exercise a little self-preservation for the next few days, before trying once more to move forward, because baby boy deserves that.