It's completely surreal.
And yet, since I've had three miscarriages in a row (yes, another one, in April, it sucked), that is the title that I suppose I've earned.
Infertile? The girl who can get pregnant no problem but can't seem to stay that way.
So, two weeks ago, that is exactly where I found myself. Telling the stories of my last year to a lovely stranger, who ordered all kinds of tests.
As someone who's had four total miscarriages but five living children, I am to considered an out-lier. The questions abound, the explanations slim (so far everything has come back "normal"), and the real wonderment is, did I get unlucky four times or did I get lucky five times?
I feel pretty helpless in all this.
I'm constantly questioning my own feelings. Are we done, and I just missed the memo? Should I never have been able to have the ones I do have? Should I stop trying and just count my blessings? Are we going to be blessed with another baby? Ever? Am I pushing too hard? Am I wrong to want another when we're so blessed already?
The nights are long when I can't sleep and am left to contemplate my own freedom of choice verses biology, verses God's will, verses righteous desire, verses worry that something is really very wrong.
It's all day.
I am coming to accept the very real possibility that Miriam is my last and final. I squeeze her tighter just for the thought.
I am fighting the temptation to just say "forget it! I'm done." I don't want to make that decision based on fear. I don't want to make THAT decision at all.
I did not want this. Good heavens, who would? But we don't get to choose our trials. We don't get to decide how we'll be tested, or when, or for how long.
All of this is pretty out of my control. I'm doing what I can, eating healthy, exercising, trying to find answers.
Ultimately though, it's just a waiting game.
A painful one.