Five days since the D&C and one week since “This just isn’t right.”
Eight weeks almost to the hour since the pretty blue + sign.
I’m expecting (and expected) to feel something soon.
I just don’t. People ask how I am and I fight the urge to shrug. This is denial. This is what denial feels like.
Being pregnant didn’t feel real in the beginning. How could you possibly wait for something for so incredibly long, and then learn on a whim, pure whim, that you’re waiting was over? There’s no way this was actually happening to me, to us. It can’t be.
And now, being not pregnant doesn’t feel real. I mentioned to Dave that I was in denial, and his first question was “Do you think you’re still pregnant?”
No, that’s not it. Maybe I’m in denial that I was ever pregnant in the first place. “Honey, you were pregnant. You saw the ultrasound. There was a baby in there.”
Ugh… okay. That’s not it either. I’m not in denial that I ever was, and I’m not in denial that I still am. It took me an hour to articulate how I feel.
I feel like this happened to someone else. I feel like this dream come true turned living nightmare was just that. An awesome dream that turned into an awful nightmare, and then I woke up and life was normal again. Except that I can’t take a bath or have sex for… nine more days. But who’s counting?? I really want both of those things to happen, BTW. This is my blog, my raw feelings, and my overshare. I want a bath and sex with my husband. Deal.
I mean, rationally, I know that the last eight weeks of my life actually happened, and that it’s not just June 11th.
It’s just impossible to believe that this happened to us. This happened to us. Not our friends, not someone one of us knows from work. Us.
Maybe it’s early. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’m not in denial and I just accepted our fate really well, really quickly.
Maybe I should have gone into psychiatry instead of library science.