I am so not okay. One would think after all this time I could be okay. That I could be even blase, that the sneak pregnancy attack would be like flies against my infertility armor.
So why does it hurt so much? I had dinner with some friends last night, mom neighbors and a couple of women from my original newborn group. They invite me to these things and I go, but I don't really have that much fun. It's a little boring. Most of them don't drink, which sadly, is a little bit of an issue for me. I'm a moderate drinker, but having a "girl party' without a glass of wine or two is just not as much fun.
So I didn't think about it when I was the only one that ordered a beer. Fortunately, another friend showed up a half hour later and ordered a glass of wine so I didn't feel like a complete pariah. I did think that one of the women, Alice, looked pregnant, but she was sitting down, with a table in front of her and she tends towards a rubenesque figure normally. In passing, and almost inaudibly, one of the other women commented that keeping the kids occupied this summer was going to be difficult "with three." Not "with a newborn" or "with no sleep." I looked at Alice and thought that she must be pregnant. But Alice didn't respond to the "with three" comment. And nobody else said a word about it. No one asked her about her pregnancy, not once did she comment on weeks or due dates, or how much harder having three might be. So I thought, "Well, maybe Alice is just getting chubbier." I hadn't seen her in three or four months. I thought I had misheard the previous comment, or perhaps a cousin was coming to stay for a while this summer.
It wasn't until almost two hours into the dinner that Alice mentioned that she couldn't eat any ice cream because of the diabetes. Gestational diabetes. She's due in less than three fucking months.
How much of an ass did I feel like now? Everybody had been dancing around the elephant in the room and I didn't even know it. I blurted out that I hadn't realized that she was pregnant and sheepish reddened faces cropped up around the table.
How come it's so much worse to be treated like a child? Yeah, it hurts. And this one hurts especially because Alice's middle son was born a month before my first miscarriage was due. I remember how hard it had been to see her expanding belly and thinking, "I should be that pregnant." With that first miscarriage those pregnant bellies were the most excruciating. And now Alice, who turned 40 a month after she got pregnant is having a third. A girl. She's a year older than when I had my first miscarriage and the same age as when I had miscarriages two and three.
But would I rather have known and have it be a topic of conversation at dinner? Yes, yes, yes. It's much better to included than to be protected. To be treated as an object of pity immediately puts one on the outside. This is group I don't even particularly want to be a part of, and I still felt like shit.
I was particularly annoyed with the one woman in the group whom I see regularly. She's from Japan, and consequently excruciatingly polite. I know with 100% certainty that she has consciously avoided mentioning this little fact to me. If she only knew how much better us infertiles and habitual miscarriers do with a little warning. It gives us time to adjust and put on our game faces. Having a six-month fetus crop up suddenly in the middle of dinner is inordinately worse.
I came home and cried like I haven't cried in a long time. Everything seemed so dark. My husband hugged me and said "I'm sorry" and "I wish I could make it better," and I wanted to scream "You could let me try one more time! We could start adopting! It takes a long time!" But I didn't. Because there really is no magic pill. I don't know if I could get pregnant. I know that if I could I would likely miscarry. I know that if we adopted, this kind of pain would not evaporate. But Chris (at barefoot and... - I'm too lazy to link) is right when she says that it can be more depressing to not try, then to try and fail.
Yes, on some days, I am not okay at all.