I am measuring behind. Unlike my new RE, I don't need to nail down the exact date that I ovulated to know where this is headed, as I stare down my latest miscarriage. Sure Dr. K, I will come back into your office on Monday to get the grim confirmation but I won't waste much needed energy on optimism. I have a desk at my office loaded with work to do this week, and a zumba class to teach and a kid to shuttle to and from school. And relentlessly cheerful in-laws visiting this Friday. False hopes will suck the life out of me.
This will make my fifth consecutive loss, sixth if I choose to count that likely chemical pregnancy that rang in the new year. And I won't be surprised if it happens again this calendar year. (Note, I can now say with discomforting honesty that I was pregnant a total of three-four times at age 40 alone).
Oh well, it's intrauterine, and won't likely need a D&C.
It's been very kind of all of you readers to try to lift my spirits this past week. Sadly, I was completely braced for this. Just trust me when I say I always know.
I should note for the record, that this latest entry into the book of grim statistics doesn't negate any of the truth or sentiment of my last blogpost/letter to former doctors. Those guys still suck.