It's just PMS, but it feels so much like Clomid it's scaring me. Why am I so hormonal two months post-miscarriage and D&C? Freaky. And annoying. I have too much to do this week to be THIS hormonal. And no, there's not a chance in hell that I'm pregnant. This is just PMS at it's ugliest.
A very dear friend heard her baby's heartbeat for the very first time today. After suffering devastating losses followed by two years of soul-crushing infertility, she is nearly 8 weeks pregnant. At long last, pregnant. And everything is a-okay.
When I heard the good news I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding in and thanked God for giving them what he chose not to give to us this summer.
And then I worried that the bitterness in the end of my prayer would cancel out the genuine gratitude of the first part.
And then I worried that if I blogged about it people would misunderstand and not realize that the bitterness is directed at God, not at my dear friends.
And then I decided that I needed to throw caution to the wind, stop apologizing and explaining and just write.
The results of my blood tests should be back sometime this week.
I've mostly put them out of my mind, save for having a vague idea about when I should be hearing from my OB, and I realize the reason for this is that I'm scared shitless about what the tests will reveal.
It's possible I'll find out that I'm more to blame for Thomas' death than I realized. And I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with that information.
But I know there will need to be wine.
My big sister is turning 40 this week.
She really, REALLY needs to stop getting older because she's dragging me with her and I'm not impressed by this at ALL.
Yesterday on our way to my Mom & Dad's for dinner we drove up alongside a couple out for a late afternoon walk. As we approached them it dawned on me that they were alone - they didn't have the requisite stroller, wagon or baby sling that 99% of people wandering our streets seem to have. They were even dog-less.
And it was immensely comforting. We aren't the only ones, I thought.
I turned to look at them as we drove past, and caught sight of her bulging tummy.
And harrumphed for the rest of the ride.
I went out with my neighbour and my Goddaughter this afternoon. Warehouse shopping is good for the soul - and even better for PMS.
And so is having a giggling one-year-old run over to you with her arms in the air, in the hopes that you'll pick her up.
Should this opportunity ever present itself to you, do as the child wants. There is nothing like a tiny little girl looking at you with big wide eyes and shooting a great gap-toothed grin your way. Nothing.
The other day it dawned on me that I feel tired all the time. I mean run-over-by-a-cement-truck-bone-achingly tired. And I'm fine. I'm not sick and when I'm not having nightmares I sleep very well. I eat healthy, well-balanced meals (most of the time) and I take my vitamins.
I've come to the conclusion that this is the fatigue of the bereaved. I drag a trunk full of additional baggage with me wherever I go. It's bound to wear a girl out.
What I wouldn't do for that once-upon-a-time sense of physical well-being I had before my body showed its true, murderous colours
During the last few days people have found this blog by doing searches for the following:
Too many highlights in my hair
Kellogs Roller Coaster
Mall Santa Claus
To these poor, unsuspecting victims I extend my most sincere apologies.