As much as I like my therapist, I do feel like sometimes we are speaking in different languages.
"Oh, so you believe you will be pregnant again?" she said, almost joyfully, last night.
"Of course," I respond. "I have little evidence to show that I won't be pregnant again. I just have very little reason to believe it will ever result in a healthy baby."
This conversation, which I feel like we've had a few times already, is why I am constantly asking her whether there's something inherently unhealthy about my drive to try again.
She keeps assuring me that I am merely trying to rewrite the ending to this chapter in my life. And that doing so isn't crazy at all.
And I keep wondering how many more losses it will take for me to accept my tiny family of three.