#3: The End. Again.

"The Great War, as we used to call it. Before we knew enough to number them." -Three Days of the Condor

Just got back from the doctor and he confirmed it: it's over. It was a blighted ovum. He saw a gestational sac, a yolk sac, and a fetal pole, but the embryo never developed and no heartbeat was ever detected. I was 8 weeks today, although there has been no growth since last week's ultrasound at 7 weeks. So miscarriage #2.

Miscarriage #2. 


M/C #2.

Let the shock of that one sink in. Take a second. Think about it. It was dismal and psyche-destroying enough to have one. Now I have to reinvent myself all over again. I'm a new woman, again. I experience them in the plural. I have to differentiate between them by dates. I'm that unlucky.


M/C #1: November 2008, 10 weeks to the day
M/C #2: October 2011, 8 weeks to the day


Feelings...


1. Rage. Rage. Rage. Other women procreate fine. People I'm related to. People I work with. 16 year-olds. So why me? Why am I singled out like this? My therapist-- who is intensely supportive-- does glean an element of narcissism in all this. The premise that I shouldn't have to experience this. This is for other people, not me. Who am I to think I should be exempt from loss? Hell, I could get some fatal disease. Hell, I probably will. (That's my new realization, actually: my bad luck probably won't stop here. From here, it will probably escalate.)


2. Sadness. For the lost being. Strike that: for the two lost beings. For my husband. For the look in his eyes. For the way he looked when the doctor told us.


3. Momentum. Because now I'm going to take some serious fucking action and get to the bottom of this. To wit: 
a) Have a D&C and do genetic testing on the material. What the fuck is the problem? Chromosomal abnormalities? Is my hydrosalpinx leaching toxic fluid into my uterus? Or are they going to come back with some bullshit about how it's unexplained? That they can't find anything?
b) Force them to do some serious fucking surgery on my blocked fallopian tube. The fertility specialist diagnosed me with hydrosalpinx two days before I took the home pregnancy test and learned I was pregnant. At that time, he counseled against doing laparoscopic surgery because it's so invasive and could potentially be life-threatening. Who gives a shit about that anymore? This life I'm leading isn't really worth it anyway. I'd rather die trying to sort this out and give myself a chance to procreate than sit around on this earth for as many more years and God sees fit to torture me, watching other women have babies and wishing them death for it. 


4. Bereft-ness. The emptiness of this house. My house with its three bedrooms and only my husband and me to sleep in it. The two other bedrooms are work rooms. They contain our computers and printers. One room has a guest bedroom. How pathetic is that. A house with too much space. And the emptiness of my life. No sense of joy from any quarter. The last three years of my life have been meaningless: I might as well have thrown them into the garbage can. Starting with my miscarriage in 2008: I fell off the train and I never got back on. I've just been lying face-down in some dung-filled ditch while the train carried the rest of the universe off to their next destination. My final destination these three years has been my nose pressed up against excrement. 


5. Rage again. There aren't enough curses against God, man, fate, the universe, and all the mothers on Facebook to adequately give voice to my anger. If I could burn a bonfire of other people's dreams and fiddle while the smoke floated up through the atmosphere, I would. This is how people go insane. This is how Katherine of Aragon ended. This is how Medea ended. This black bitterness. This voiceless, wordless, inchoate pain. And there is nowhere to put it. Nowhere. To. Put. It. So it marinates inside my own bowels, and my bowels stir and stew in the radioactivity of my rage. My emotions turned in against myself and burning my heart with useless fire.