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Thursday, August 29, 2013

Getting real


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Most people in the early weeks of pregnancy are hiding their secret—excitedly—under baggy clothes and virgin drinks at happy hour. I’m hiding mine under a cotton ball and medical tape, the scars of repetitive blood draws tucked beneath long sleeves despite the August heat. The difference is, they’re hiding the anticipation of a dream come true, and I’m hiding my dying dream—my dying child—and a grief that’s trying to swallow me whole.

It happened again. My body betrayed me—betrayed us—and we’re faced once again with the nightmare of another ectopic pregnancy, a recovery ahead of me that feels more dauntingly emotional than physical, but full of unanswered questions about the reality of someday fulfilling our dream of becoming a mommy and daddy.

Please know I’m writing this—sharing this—for my own healing, not for sympathy or pity (though I must say Sean and I are so grateful for the loving support from everyone), not for attention or to wallow in my despair. It’s because saying those words (or typing them, in this case) makes it real. And whether I’m ready to accept it or not, this is as real as it gets. This is part of my story.