Sunday, February 5, 2017


My pregnant best friend at work (PBFAW) is now almost 36 weeks.  Her first daughter is 16 months.  She has no idea that I've had two chemical pregnancies during the period where she's been growing a whole big new beautiful baby.

Today we hung out at the home of our mutual friend, the one and only woman who I have chosen to share all of this with.  Mutual friend has trudged through IVF (own egg) and from it she now has a beautiful son.  But she is the chosen one, because like me she didn't talk about it.  NO ONE at work knew what she went through, and I have chosen her as my sorta IVF spirit guide because that's the thing I get most hung up about.  Hiding this bullshit from the world, and particularly my nosy office.  Which wants my all of my fucking time.

(Full disclosure:  some of you, my readers, actually *know* me.  I am not an anonymous voice out here in the wilderness, but a living breathing person, with a face and a pitch in her voice, and a supposedly energetic laugh.  I walk through life assuming you read my words, and yes, you are welcome to discuss whatever you read here with me.  Just never around my daughter).

The Viking doesn't really appreciate what kind of emotional energy I spend keeping my shit together around pregnant women, love them as I may.  Or their babies.  When we visited the therapist together, he got a glimpse of it.  The therapist gently tried to get him to understand why I view all of my losses as babies, and how much grief I am immersed in.  He remained steadfast in saying something along the lines of:  I feel helpless dealing with my wife's grief, and I feel like if I grieve, we're both gonna be in a lot of trouble. So I'm not going to grieve.  He just can't do it, even though the grieving is an incredibly isolating part of my personal existence. 

Any way, back to brunch: PBFAW was in a lot of pain, and being a fitness wannabe yogi, I was able to give her some gentle stretches that gave her a lot of relief.  And of course all I could think back to was Niblet.  How pain free that pregnancy was, how fucking beautiful, how slender and fit I was, how the only time I really wanted her out of me was around 37 weeks, when I was a walking house at 5 feet tall and could no longer see my feet.

Those were good times, and the only way I can survive the next few months is to imagine myself maybe, just maybe, recreating myself again.  As a woman who brings life into the world.  I beyond sick of my body functioning as a living graveyard.

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