Well this is interesting, just sitting around waiting to miscarry. It's like there are two little time bombs in there and I have no idea when they're going to go off. Or if they're going to blow, as a matter of fact.
Will they quietly leave me on their own? Will I be in surgery later this week? I dunno.
Fuckity fuck, I don't know.
I'm at my worst when I'm not in control. Although I'm maintaining a calm, collected exterior and trying to function as normally as possible, I'm feeling relatively dead inside. Pardon the morbid pun.
I'm confused by the cruelty of the universe, I'm frightened about how this is all going to go down, and, worst of all, I don't know if I can do it again. Any of it.
Neither of us do.
I sat in church today (don't ask me why - it's not like God can possibly do any more to me, but I'm still too chicken not to traipse over to see him every Sunday) tormenting myself with the thought that I was the only person in that building waiting to miscarry twins. What a weird, lonely thought. And horrible. Just horrible.
Just before communion I became acutely aware of the cacophony of children's coos, cries and chatter echoing around the church, and for the first time ever it made me feel sick. Because I'm a million miles from owning those noises and I don't know if I have the stomach to keep on trying to get them.
How many times can you go through the cycle of hope and agony? How many times until it breaks you? How many times until you finally buckle and lay down at the feet of the gods crying "uncle" over and over again just to make it stop hurting? How many times until the grief twists you into something unrecognizably ugly forever?
I can't decide if not having any children is equal to the pain of losing more of them.
And fuck me, I can't believe I'm being forced to consider that equation at all.