Two weeks ago, I was pregnant.
Quietly, unnoticeably, but very enthusiastically pregnant.
This pregnancy was going to be okay, I was certain of it. I've been pregnant four times before but as many of you know we only have one: Addiston.
We've been down this road. Once we had the slow gradual build up of a high speed roller coaster with the pause and then the let down, like a boulder falling on whylie coyote. We've encountered the excitement and and then endured as it wasn’t but a few days of redecorating house space in my mind and visualizing the way my hands would cradle that itty bitty body when BAM — it was over. My hCG levels plummeted and my body responsibly did its job, repairing the broken space inside and renewing it for another time — a better time when everything would be perfect.
Well, this was it — the perfect time. Because, after the brilliant display of an indisputable pink plus sign on a screen, it had been a good week. And then another good week. And oh, the obvious pregnancy symptoms arrived, and I welcomed the discomfort they brought as good confirmation and a promise that our family would certainly grow as I had hoped and planned.
We do that in life. We hope and plan and dream every day, from little details to monumental life decisions. I may have earned a red belt in life disappointment — I’ve endured one unexpected cervical cancer diagnosis and now four miscarriages — but it’s nothing compared to the black belt of sorrow many others have unwillingly received. But I have to pause and remember that I do have a lot, even with the loss of the little one who was to arrive with the first buds of early spring next year. And I will continue to hope and plan that our family will grow and our girl will be a big sister some day.