Broken.

That might be the best way to describe myself lately. I have been keeping to myself, fighting this nagging feeling of slipping into a deep, cold depression. You would think that after almost 2 years, things would be better for us, and they were.... until December. 

On November 19th, I turned 30, in the midst of a surprise birthday party thrown by my husband. The following weekend, I "ran" my first 5k. I had been on some major meds to deal with a back injury from breaking up a fight at school, so my 5k was really a slow jog and even slower walk with my brother going along for the ride. I just didn't feel right. It was Thanksgiving weekend and I was tired and just worn out...more than usual. 

The Monday after Turkey Day, I realized that I was more than a week late. With my surprise birthday party and Thanksgiving all happening, I just didn't really think about it until we got home. So Monday after work, I made an idiot out of myself and bought a few hpts... except I wasn't an idiot. I was pregnant. Naturally. As in this will never happen by itself naturally. 

And in one second, we were acting like happily expecting parents... again. The next day, I had my blood drawn and the beta came back in the 170s. It was an ok number, but I felt like it should be higher, thinking I was more than 5 weeks at that point. My second beta rose, but not enough. And then it rose again and again, but never doubling. I was having an ectopic pregnancy. Our Christmas Party was the day we found out that the pregnancy was not viable. I had to put on my happy face and act like everything was fantastic, hosting 30 of our coworkers and friends, all the while dying inside. 

We have been told that the chances that this happened are something like less than 5%. The likelihood of it happening again is even less. The people that know were encouraged that it happened on its own and could again, but we know it most likely never will. At first, I wanted to get right back to the RE and do another IVF, but now I just don't know. That damn dangling carrot killed us. 

I don't understand why I would get pregnant naturally, after everything we have been through, only to have to go through a miscarriage. We were so incredibly happy in the few days where we thought everything was ok. We allowed ourselves to be happy and excited and then life happened.

We didn't tell many, knowing that Christmas was right around the corner and not wanting to bring others down. 

Today, I am struggling. Struggling at making a decision to try again. If I am being honest, I don't know how much more I can lose. I am so incredibly taken care of in so many other aspects of life, but this just leaves a hole in my heart like no other. 

If I didn't tell you, it was because I didn't want you to hurt for us more than you have already. Honestly, this hurt, but nothing can compare to losing Sophia. I guess I just felt like I needed to write this out. Not for comments or sympathy. Just for me. 

Never have words been so true...

Taken from Small Bird Studios

When You Lose a Baby

February 5, 2012 By Franchesca 

You don’t know what to expect.
People surround you. For a couple of weeks. Making sure you are not going to kill yourself, refuse to get out of bed, or start rocking a baby doll like the crazy lady they heard about from a friend.
You get lots of sympathy cards, clearly written and designed to be sent to console a daughter losing her father. Not the other way around.

You get free baby formula in the mail. For months and months and months.
And free baby magazines. And free baby coupons.

You secretly envy every pregnant woman. But not without a tinge of guilt, because you know all too well that she might be one in four- expecting her rainbow child.

It seems like the whole world is expecting a baby.

You have baby stuff around your home. Because you never imagined you wouldn’t need it.
You feel jarred. In the grocery store. At a birthday party. At the dinner table. At Christmas. Driving.
The baby you never knew, but lost changes every part of your life. Every. single. part.

Forever.

You see baby clothes and it brings tears to your eyes.
You get sick and tired of crying. You never knew it was possible to cry this much.

You find yourself angry at God. Angry at yourself. Just angry.

You sware you can feel them kick but they’re gone. They call them phantom kicks. I call them painful, all kinds of painful. But sweet too.

You know, or you have a strong feeling of knowing what your child would have looked like, and been like. You see a child in the store, or on the street. Their hair color, dimples, smile, their personality and suddenly you are reminded of your child. You miss your child even more, if that’s even possible.

Your Babies R’ Us Registry is still active. There is no delete button on their site. The babies r’ us people don’t make a dime on people like us. Why bother right? You have to call them, plead with them to remove your freaking’ registry, because there will be no baby shower. There is an awkward silence. There is sadness. There will be no baby.

You get hospital bills about 3-4 months after you buried your child. You have to pay for the baby you delivered but didn’t bring home.

You find that moment of happiness in life for the first time, but the guilt swallows it up almost immediately.

You remember the size of the casket. The size of the plot. The face of the funeral director. The expression of those that attended the funeral. The feeling of raw pain, like your chest has literally been ripped open.

Somehow you convince yourself that you deserve happiness. Because you really do. But in the happiest, purest moment, there is still that hole that only they were meant to fill.

People compare your pain to their own pain. The loss of their grandmother, husband, their failed marriage, rebellious teenagers. Somehow this comparing leaves you stranded. If they can compare their pain of a situation to the loss of your BABY, they will likely never get it. Babies are not supposed to die. End of story.

You lost a dream. And it almost feels like you imagined their entire existence up. Their name becomes a distant memory on the lips of others.

There is awkwardness when you talk about your child in a crowd. No one knows whether to cry, walk away or pretend you never brought him or her up.

You lose friends. You find new ones.

You can’t believe that women have actually survived this and you never knew about it. Not really, anyway.

You would do anything for another minute with your child.

You cry when others bring up your child, not so much because it hurts but more so because it such a precious and rare gift.

You long for the rewind button, even after many many instances of acceptance.
You want to know what went wrong, and why…

You find a new appreciation for moments in life that make you laugh… you laugh harder and love stronger.

You know that you can die bitter, or die thankful. There is no in between.

You never ever, EVER get over your child. The one you hoped for, prayed for, carried and loved for the weeks and months they were with you.

You learn to live with the pain.

You are better for having known them at all.