I am the 1%. Of women who have three consecutive miscarriages, that is.

Shortly after miscarriage #2, I began to truly dread the holidays. With a due date shorly after new years, all of my holiday fantasies included being great with child. Or at least some hope of having a baby in the forseeable future. After about 5 months of nothing, I decided to ignore it all. No tree, no decorations, no annual reading of The Hogfather.
But then a miracle–two weeks before Christmas I learned I would be spending the holidays pregnant. I felt truly happy for the first time in what felt like years. I would not lose this one. It would be too improbable.
Then overnight my symptoms left me. I started bleeding in earnest. I’m waiting for it to end and praying that it ends quickly. I can’t bear another long, fretful 1st trimester that ends like the last one. When I’m not out of my mind with rage and depression, I’m in denial. And when I’m not in denial, I’m listening to my uterus waiting for the contractions to start.

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4 thoughts on “I am the 1%. Of women who have three consecutive miscarriages, that is.

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