Written in the stars?

So, after peeing on way too many sticks, I feel comfortable saying (only to you my dear readers) that indeed, I am pregnant. Though I should add for anyone who is interested that the faint lines on said sticks aren't rousing endorsements (um, yes, can I just ask, "Fucking Wondfo, are your ridiculously low HCG-capturing abilities capturing a chemical pregnancy?")  I suppose the bleeding gums and general nausea confirm it as well. 

For the average woman trying to conceive this should be a moment of joy.  For those of us who have been down the road of repeat pregnancy loss, these are the first moments in a lengthy series of moments of dread.  Will it stick?  Is this tiny fertilized egg doomed with chromosomal abnormalities from the get-go?

I am dutifully eating my leafy greens (folate) and taking prenatals.  I quit smoking decades ago and drinking years ago.  But I can't help but feel as if the story of this pregnancy has already been written - in the stars, perhaps - and I am a mere bystander to the drama as it unfolds.  I recognize that might sound controversial to anyone who hasn't experienced the hell of losing babies.  Am I suggesting that my future actions and behaviors are insignificant?  I mean think about it, women are relentlessly reminded of the responsibilities they have to the babies (or potential babies, if that floats your boat) they carry.

"Lay off the caffeine!"
"Exercise, but not too much!"
"Don't even think about eating sushi!" (despite the fact that the women of a rather large island nation likely chow down on it regularly).
"Think happy thoughts! Don't let your negative energy interfere with the beauty of what is happening inside of you!"

I'm sure I could solicit a long list from my readers.  All of these "reminders" often serve a twisted purpose when stated in the wrong context.  They act as a bludgeon to the mother who has miscarried through no fault of her own.

If I miscarry this pregnancy it won't be because I jonesed for a cup of coffee.  It won't be because I taught a zumba class.  It won't be because I am scared and trying to stay emotionally detatched from whatever is growing inside of me at this moment. 

If I sound bitter, perhaps it is because there is a small part of me that is.  The joy of pregnancy is simply not something I can grasp anymore.  A partial molar pregnancy, a trisomy and a cervix weakened by numerous surgeries have stolen that joy from me.

Two lines on a stick are a source of hope.  But they are not a source of joy.

And so I wait.