Three Weeks Gone

Sunday, October 14th, 2012.  21DPMc.

This week would have been the end of our first trimester.

We would have announced our pregnancy publicly.  Maybe today, maybe later in the week.

We had some beautiful professional photos taken by some dear friends, specifically to post on Facebook and send to friends and family.

I haven’t had the heart to look at them since the night before our first ultrasound, when the joy and peace we had begun to allow ourselves to feel was sucked right out of the room, much like the air out my lungs after the doctor said “I don’t see anything”.

Physically, I feel good.  Strong.  Myself, mostly.

Emotionally, psychologically, spiritually… nothing is the same.

I dream of that night, three weeks ago, alone in my bathroom.  I think about the pain, the weakness, and the despair I felt, and I know that it was by far the lowest moment in my life.

And still, it was empowering in a way.

I know I’m stronger than I ever was before.

I can handle whatever comes my way.  I can say that with complete confidence now.

Nothing can really break me, not after I’ve been broken in this way.

There are still moments where I grieve.  I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

There are still times when I catch a glimpse of the fetal heart monitor, still in its box unopened, underneath my bed, and all the air gets sucked out of my lungs again.

There are times when I think I should put away the two tiny ultrasound photos we have, and then I think that no matter how badly it hurts me to see them, it would hurt me even more to not see them.

To forget.

The one thing that has meant the most in the past three weeks has been remembering every detail.

That first faint second line.

Calling the husband at work, on his birthday, to tell him.

Telling the blogosphere, and our families, and trying to do so in the correct order.  And the hilarious chaos that ensued.

Remembering the good things has been just as important as remembering the bad things.

The day I realized my  pregnancy symptoms had all but disappeared.

Steeling myself for that last ultrasound, knowing what the doctor would say.

Crying with the husband, and that numb ride home when we sent a mass text to our families explaining what was happening.

Laboring, panting, crying as I miscarried my baby.

Knowing that it was over.

Three weeks gone.

The rest of my life to live with the joy and grief.

The rest of my life to use this strength to accomplish everything I never thought I could.

Three weeks gone, and the rest of my life ahead.