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flipflop_diva(This week's entry is an intersection, meaning we each have a partner and each write one of the two topics. My amazing lovely partner is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bewize. We wrote our entries so they can stand alone (hers is here), but also so they can be read together. If you would like to read the combined entry, it is here.)
Also, there is talk about miscarriage in my half if that triggers you.
I stare down at the plastic test, and then stare down at it some more. I check my phone again, watching as three minutes tick slowly by.
It doesn’t matter. I know that after the first thirty seconds. Last time, the second line was there right away. This time there is no second line. Staring at it longer and harder isn’t going to make it appear.
It is early though. Still two days before my expected period, even if the test promises it can tell you up to six. But there is still a chance, right? That’s what I tell myself as I wrap the stick back in the plastic wrapper it came in and drop it so far down in the trash bin that I can’t see it anymore.
I have been so sure. I’d been so tired the past couple days. And the other morning I was grumpy for no reason. And there was that time I felt a little nauseous.
But the stick isn’t lying. Two days later, right on time, I get confirmation.
“No,” I tell my husband, trying not to sound too sad. “Maybe next month.”
“Definitely next month!” he says, and I wonder if he is trying to sound as hopeful as I’m trying to sound, even if I don’t know anymore if I am.
•••
It’s harder the second time around. Which is saying a lot, because it wasn’t easy the first time. All of those months back then of wondering if it were possible, if we were too old, if we had missed the moment.
We know this time that it was and we weren’t and we hadn’t. But it isn’t making things easier.
An article I read two days after the miscarriage says once you start trying again, you’ll think you’re pregnant a hundred times.
“I’ll know better,” I tell myself as I read it.
I do know better, but the article is still right. For two weeks of every month, I wonder about every possibly symptom or sign. Am I more tired this morning because I didn’t sleep well or because I’m pregnant? Do I feel sick because I’m getting a cold or because we’re getting a baby?
I stare in a mirror and wonder if maybe, just maybe, my breasts look bigger. I’ve looked at them every day of my life, and I can’t tell.
Sometimes I think about the other baby, the one who will never be born. I’d be almost six months pregnant now. We were supposed to be planning a baby shower and painting a nursery and arguing about whether we need to get a bigger car.
Instead, we’re testing for ovulation and having a sex on a schedule and wondering if it’s going to happen again and if it does if this one will make it.
I wish I could leap into the future, just six months down the road even, and know how this all turns out. But I can’t. All I can do is wait. Wait and wait through every long, painful day.
•••
We’re going to tell people this time.
Last time we didn’t. Last time we waited. Last time I planned in my head what I would say to my parents, how I would surprise them. I looked up announcements for social media and plotted how we could do ours. I had it all planned out, every detail.
But in the end, I called my parents on the phone in tears to tell them the bad news, then did the same with my closest friends.
So we’re going to tell them this time. If it happens. Not everyone. Just the ones who know about the miscarriage.
Nothing fancy, just the news.
“If we’re going to tell them when something bad happens,” I say to my husband, “We should tell them when something good happens.”
“I’m not going to get excited this time,” my husband says.
I don’t say anything to that. I want to be excited again, to be hopeful. But I’m scared too. Scared there won’t be a next time, scared if there is it will end the same way.
I read something on a message board when I was pregnant, from a woman who’d had a miscarriage before.
“Just because you don’t get excited about it doesn’t make it hurt any less when something bad happens,” she wrote.
It didn’t mean anything to me then, but now it does. I think about those words, and wonder how it will feel if we get that positive sign on that plastic test.
I hope I get the chance to find out.
•••
One thing about a miscarriage —people who know about it stop asking you when their grandchildren are going to be born, if you’re trying, why you’re not pregnant.
They say different things instead.
“You should stop eating all beef and dairy,” my friend Cindy says.
“Make sure you stay laying down for at least an hour after every attempt,” another friend advises.
I nod at all these suggestions, say thank you for the advice. I want to say that we managed just fine last time and it’s only been two months — last time it took five — but I don’t. They’re only trying to help, and I’m anxious too.
I haven’t had caffeine in six months. I haven’t had a drink in longer. I know, in my head, that the cup of coffee and the margarita I had before I knew I was pregnant that first time in no way caused the miscarriage. But I’m not taking any chances.
So I order chicken in my tacos instead of beef. Put coconut milk on my cereal instead of cow milk. Plan for a little extra time after the next attempt.
You never know, I tell myself. Maybe it will make the difference.
•••
I keep it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I pull it out every now and then, just to look at. It’s a little wrinkled, a tiny bit worn. I run my fingers across its smooth surface.
It’s the only picture of her (or maybe him) I’ll ever have. The ultrasound taken after it was too late to save the baby.
Seven weeks, it says at the bottom.
I hope someday I’ll have another ultrasound and then another and then another. I hope someday there will be more than just a picture.
A rainbow baby. That’s what they call a baby who is born after the loss of another. A happy ending to a bad storm.
That’s what I want. But it’s still too soon to know. The distance between here to there, between the present and I baby I imagine all the time, still feels so far away.
But maybe this month will be the month that finally makes a difference.
I hope you enjoyed! This was written for Week 18 of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
therealljidol. To read all the other takes, go here. Voting is here!
bewize. We wrote our entries so they can stand alone (hers is here), but also so they can be read together. If you would like to read the combined entry, it is here.)Also, there is talk about miscarriage in my half if that triggers you.
I stare down at the plastic test, and then stare down at it some more. I check my phone again, watching as three minutes tick slowly by.
It doesn’t matter. I know that after the first thirty seconds. Last time, the second line was there right away. This time there is no second line. Staring at it longer and harder isn’t going to make it appear.
It is early though. Still two days before my expected period, even if the test promises it can tell you up to six. But there is still a chance, right? That’s what I tell myself as I wrap the stick back in the plastic wrapper it came in and drop it so far down in the trash bin that I can’t see it anymore.
I have been so sure. I’d been so tired the past couple days. And the other morning I was grumpy for no reason. And there was that time I felt a little nauseous.
But the stick isn’t lying. Two days later, right on time, I get confirmation.
“No,” I tell my husband, trying not to sound too sad. “Maybe next month.”
“Definitely next month!” he says, and I wonder if he is trying to sound as hopeful as I’m trying to sound, even if I don’t know anymore if I am.
•••
It’s harder the second time around. Which is saying a lot, because it wasn’t easy the first time. All of those months back then of wondering if it were possible, if we were too old, if we had missed the moment.
We know this time that it was and we weren’t and we hadn’t. But it isn’t making things easier.
An article I read two days after the miscarriage says once you start trying again, you’ll think you’re pregnant a hundred times.
“I’ll know better,” I tell myself as I read it.
I do know better, but the article is still right. For two weeks of every month, I wonder about every possibly symptom or sign. Am I more tired this morning because I didn’t sleep well or because I’m pregnant? Do I feel sick because I’m getting a cold or because we’re getting a baby?
I stare in a mirror and wonder if maybe, just maybe, my breasts look bigger. I’ve looked at them every day of my life, and I can’t tell.
Sometimes I think about the other baby, the one who will never be born. I’d be almost six months pregnant now. We were supposed to be planning a baby shower and painting a nursery and arguing about whether we need to get a bigger car.
Instead, we’re testing for ovulation and having a sex on a schedule and wondering if it’s going to happen again and if it does if this one will make it.
I wish I could leap into the future, just six months down the road even, and know how this all turns out. But I can’t. All I can do is wait. Wait and wait through every long, painful day.
•••
We’re going to tell people this time.
Last time we didn’t. Last time we waited. Last time I planned in my head what I would say to my parents, how I would surprise them. I looked up announcements for social media and plotted how we could do ours. I had it all planned out, every detail.
But in the end, I called my parents on the phone in tears to tell them the bad news, then did the same with my closest friends.
So we’re going to tell them this time. If it happens. Not everyone. Just the ones who know about the miscarriage.
Nothing fancy, just the news.
“If we’re going to tell them when something bad happens,” I say to my husband, “We should tell them when something good happens.”
“I’m not going to get excited this time,” my husband says.
I don’t say anything to that. I want to be excited again, to be hopeful. But I’m scared too. Scared there won’t be a next time, scared if there is it will end the same way.
I read something on a message board when I was pregnant, from a woman who’d had a miscarriage before.
“Just because you don’t get excited about it doesn’t make it hurt any less when something bad happens,” she wrote.
It didn’t mean anything to me then, but now it does. I think about those words, and wonder how it will feel if we get that positive sign on that plastic test.
I hope I get the chance to find out.
•••
One thing about a miscarriage —people who know about it stop asking you when their grandchildren are going to be born, if you’re trying, why you’re not pregnant.
They say different things instead.
“You should stop eating all beef and dairy,” my friend Cindy says.
“Make sure you stay laying down for at least an hour after every attempt,” another friend advises.
I nod at all these suggestions, say thank you for the advice. I want to say that we managed just fine last time and it’s only been two months — last time it took five — but I don’t. They’re only trying to help, and I’m anxious too.
I haven’t had caffeine in six months. I haven’t had a drink in longer. I know, in my head, that the cup of coffee and the margarita I had before I knew I was pregnant that first time in no way caused the miscarriage. But I’m not taking any chances.
So I order chicken in my tacos instead of beef. Put coconut milk on my cereal instead of cow milk. Plan for a little extra time after the next attempt.
You never know, I tell myself. Maybe it will make the difference.
•••
I keep it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I pull it out every now and then, just to look at. It’s a little wrinkled, a tiny bit worn. I run my fingers across its smooth surface.
It’s the only picture of her (or maybe him) I’ll ever have. The ultrasound taken after it was too late to save the baby.
Seven weeks, it says at the bottom.
I hope someday I’ll have another ultrasound and then another and then another. I hope someday there will be more than just a picture.
A rainbow baby. That’s what they call a baby who is born after the loss of another. A happy ending to a bad storm.
That’s what I want. But it’s still too soon to know. The distance between here to there, between the present and I baby I imagine all the time, still feels so far away.
But maybe this month will be the month that finally makes a difference.
I hope you enjoyed! This was written for Week 18 of
therealljidol. To read all the other takes, go here. Voting is here!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-05-18 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-19 02:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-19 05:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-19 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-20 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-20 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-20 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-21 01:03 am (UTC)I hope there is good news for you soon.
no subject
Date: 2017-05-21 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-21 07:42 am (UTC)I'll cross my fingers that you're able to get a rainbow of your own. *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2017-05-22 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-22 08:49 am (UTC)(Can I hope for you, too?)
no subject
Date: 2017-05-22 01:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-22 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-22 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-23 12:39 am (UTC)