I am waiting for a call from the Early Pregnancy Assessment Clinic, where I will go to have this miscarriage confirmed. I am already sure. There was no spotting for several hours after I first noticed it last night, but then about two hours ago, it started again and is worsening. This pregnancy is ending.
And with it go all my hopes and dreams for another child, another baby to hold and love, a sister or brother for my sweet little E. I thought that after Anja died I had lost hope, but now I can see that I hadn’t. This time though I feel as if I am to learn a lesson; I am to finally grasp that this is not to be. My reproductive life ends here. I will not mourn a baby this time, as I did – and do and will forever – with Anja. I will mourn instead the visions I had of Christmas mornings with my children conspiring over their stockings, road trips with two kids passed out in the back seat, a hand held tight in each of mine on summer evening neighbourhood walks. I mourn the end of hope. I hate that it ends. I hate the way it ends. But, really, I think it must end. I don’t think my heart can take anymore.
Shortly after Anja died, my mother-in-law sent me a jade charm which claimed to be for ‘unexpected miracles.’ I put it away with Anja’s few things, thinking then that I wasn’t ready for anything unexpected, let alone a miracle. But recently I took it out of Anja’s box and placed it carefully next to my positive pregnancy test on one side and to Anja’s ashes on the other. I felt brave. I felt like I was admitting hope.
Once I know for absolute certain that this pregnancy is over, that charm and that pregnancy test are going straight into the garbage. Good riddance.