Another coworker is pregnant. She is due in November. She once told me she hoped to be pregnant in the months leading up to the election, because my organization demands that we do a lot of "volunteer" canvassing and door-knocking and getting out the vote (GoTV) work that's actually mandatory. So she put some thought into the timing, and bam, she'll likely avoid a lot of it.
Years ago, before I was broken, I would express the desire to make similar plans.
In the meantime, the subject of this post reached out to me yesterday, completely out of the blue. And texted me her baby pictures, as if there was nothing awkward about never personally reaching out to me to talk about her pregnancy or baby. I mean, sure, she's long since outed on FB, but it was so weird (for me of course). And she wants to have coffee and catch up. I am fairly sure she only reached out because she was heading into a meeting with a former boss of mine and wanted some intel, but it just feels so damn exhausting. Trying to put on a smile over a text message. "Sure! Coffee sounds great, let me know when!"
I feel like I am living in this strange aftermath of all of these conversations about babies with Niblet. Like, now, like some sort of relapsing addict, I am actually looking at the calendar wondering, "What DPO am I?" Lurking on some of the old babycenter boards to see what other women are up to. Niblet put the damn babies in my brain, when I was getting so fucking good at shutting them out. And now, it totally feels like the pregnancies are following me around, in a way that feels harsher - stabbier - than it has in months past.
I hate jealousy. I hate that I care. I hate feeling punched in the gut when I see pregnant women, over a year after my last loss. I hate that despite therapy, and acupuncture and massages, and hugs and snuggles with my daughter and husband, focusing on my health and trying to rock out my job, and ballet, I am still. irreparably. broken.