September had some milestones. I turned 41, and Duncan turned 19.5 months, the same age Margaret was when Duncan was born. In the midst of this I had a period arrive after only 25 days. (Between Duncan’s birth and the subsequent pregnancy/miscarriage my periods were a pretty consistent 31 days.) We’ve been trying naturally, and not only did this mean that our timing was too screwed up to have worked, but shameless hope junkie that I am I let myself believe for a couple of hours that it was implantation bleeding. I should have know better, but I just can’t help myself.
Miscarriages suck. I’ve been upset about it now far longer than I was pregnant. Also, the fact that it was a natural conception has screwed with all my defense mechanisms, and until the blood arrived again this past Saturday (on schedule at 31 days this time) I was thinking about when I might test, like the sucker I used to be back in 2004. We’ll be naturally again this month, but to be honest I’m looking forward to going back to IVF. It’s easier on me psychologically; you at least know when to expect bad news, it doesn’t ambush you on the toilet.
I’m still missing the baby we lost too. I remember seeing “her” on the ultrasound the day we got the bad news about the heartbeat. I could see what I thought must be the head and two arm buds. “She” didn’t look like a baby yet, but “she” looked perfect to me for not quite eight weeks, it was so hard to take in that we were going to lose “her”. If we hadn’t lost that one I’d be in maternity close by now. We’d likely know the gender. I won’t feel like I’d gone backwards.
I do love the two kids I’ve got. If I never have another one it won’t be the end of the world. It just hurts to have come so close to the desired number three only to have it snatched away, and I’m definitely not getting younger.