I go to the clinic tomorrow morning. The spotting slowed yesterday afternoon, was non-existent this morning, but started again at lunchtime and is picking up quickly. Tomorrow, six months to the day that a doctor I’d never met before told me my baby, my Anja, was dead, the same doctor will confirm that this pregnancy is over. I want to say thank you to everyone who has commented here in the past couple days. It has really meant so much to me. So very much. 

I’ve been thinking about some of the comments about hope. I have to say that I have not lost hope in general. I still feel hopeful that I’ll come out of this long season of my most acute grief with some extra wisdom, and that there is still a whole lot of joy to be found in my future. What I can’t hope for anymore, though, is another baby. I just can’t do it. It has been too much loss for me and even if I did decide to try again, I would be doing it from a place of absolute – what is the opposite of hope? Well, hopelessness, I guess, though that doesn’t seem quite right. A grim resolution, maybe. 

I blew off work this morning to spend some time with E and my mom. We walked along the seawall and took the sea bus to Granville Island, bought E some new sparkly sandals, took her to the water park and out for grilled cheese. It was perfect and I was happy. I left them together after lunch so that I could do a bit of work and go to my support group. As soon as they turned the corner and I was alone on the street, I felt the weight press down on my shoulders and chest. I remember that weight from the first few weeks after Anja died.

I am hopeful (see!) that I can get through  the immediate pain of the miscarriage without too much trauma, that I can surround myself with the love of the beautiful little family I do have and find happiness in summer days with E and R. Accepting the end of our dreams for more will take some time. But, since Anja died I have noticed how much closer our little family of three feels. How it feels as though it is us against the world. We have closed in together, held each other tighter, recognized that we are our own little unit, united, just us. Just us. Just us will be okay. And someday, I hope (see again!) much more than okay. 

Today, though, I hurt. I really hurt.