In some ways I feel like I'm writing this post early, on the eve of the 11-month anniversary of losing our babies, but at the same time, no. Today is 11 months since my water broke. Eleven months since the very worst day of our lives.
The last month has not been fun. Between me battling my own depression demons and Paul's coming to light (which renders me helpless...the man is my rock, my always-upbeat partner...he can't be down!), very painful and difficult conversations about the next steps in our journey to a take-home baby, a couple of painful fights (one in front of our friends in support group, which was embarrassing until I heard later that they'd already been there, done that), the last couple of weeks have been especially tough.
Next month will be here before we know it. The enormity of a full year of grieving feels like a meteor making a slow fall to Earth, the two of us watching, sure it's going to land right on top of us. I can't believe I've survived a year of this. Truly. I expected - and even wished for - this crushing grief to kill me dead. I had nothing to live for, no reason to be here, except for my husband. And still, I got up most days, showered and dragged myself to work, to errands, to meetings. The routine finally got to be routine, and the clouds lifted a little bit more with each passing week, letting a little more sunlight in. I've had some fun, some full-blown belly laughs, and fewer and fewer tears.
Am I still broken? Yes, inside, but showing it outside less. Am I still angry? Yes, often, but not quite as often. Can I believe, still, that this is my life?
I spent some time in the last 11 months beating myself up for turning into a better person because of this, not being more humane or more loving or more...I don't know, something other than me. I read a lot of babyloss blogs, and there are always a few who write about being better than they were for the loss of their child. I'm just me...trying to navigate this loss, this life, trying to clutch onto that elusive hope that we will have at least one healthy take home baby. My head spins with wondering how this week's test results will turn out as my body continues to be in the way of getting pregnant again (Clomid Challenge test, a repeat AMH draw, and a repeat hysteroscopy for those of you in the know), wondering whether Paul really means yes when he says he's now open to donor egg IVF (something I've already come to terms with and am ready to undertake), how we're going to come up with a satisfactory answer to psychologists' questions about our nearly 5-year infertility struggle and the loss of our babies when we go through the donor egg process. It's just a lot. My head is full, and yet I feel like I have nothing to write about. I don't know what's up with that. Maybe it's just a slump. I can't stay in those dark places too long. It's dangerous.
Rather than spend too much time enjoying my pity party, I've been working on doing little things I enjoy, and tackling chores I don't, like pulling weeds (actually, some weeds are hugely gratifying to pull, but the vast numbers make this chore overwhelming...and given we pulled very few over the last 11 months, the suckers have a distinct advantage). Somehow, picking up and focusing on the little things helps keep my mind unstuck from the quagmire of sadness and what if's and should be's. That's a good thing...