The Aftermath

The worst part of finding out that the fetus inside you is dying is knowing that the fetus inside you is dying while you're carrying on. Your mind goes all kinds of dark places you wish it could never find. Like, Is it happening now? Does it feel anything? When will my body realize it's dead?

Also, you still feel pregnant. I'm still hungry, ravenously, insatiably hungry, yet having to eat like a pregnant person now disgusts me. This morning I saw that my boobs still think I'm pregnant too -- they're still killing me and ballooned up, apparently gearing up to nurse a baby that will never exist. I actually swore at them, dropped an f-bomb at my own body parts, I was so angry at them. My body hasn't gotten the memo yet, and it feels like another betrayal.

I forced myself to take H out this morning. I knew it was my duty to do so, but I'm not sure it did me any good. I saw pregnant people everywhere, and I hated them all. And then I loathed myself for it.

This could have been it. I could have been done. Once again, I was so close, it was so within reach I could taste it. Now I have two choices: Subject myself to more pain and heartbreak or walk away from my heart's true desire -- not only for me, but for H, who deserves a sibling. The latter still, incredibly, doesn't feel like the right answer. But I'm brittle, and I don't know when I'll break.