Nights are harder, take more work. I wake up with a fist of dread just under my ribs and know that this is another failure. The feeling is certain, as though I've already been told. I try to envision a different outcome, one with cells still dividing, firmly attached, but I can't hold onto it for more than a moment before the certainty returns. I wake Jeff up, willing him to coax me into hopefulness, or I read a few pages of whatever's by the bed. Sometimes I fall asleep and do not dream, but more often my mind keeps circling and spiraling.
I am not pregnant.
I will never be pregnant again.
I am sure.
There is nothing I can do.
I can find distraction in the days: I talk, I listen, I work, I read, I smile, I cook, I clean. There's always a nagging in my head, a reminder that sorrow is to come, but I can drown it out with noise.
I vowed that I would not expect or look for symptoms, but I lied. I hoped so much to feel a difference, any difference, but I am just me, singular me. I do not feel an "us." There is nothing to distinguish between every other day and today: my insensitive breasts and iron stomach and silent uterus, my menstrual bloating and monthly acne. Just the repetitive symptoms of failure.
But why, when I have this penetrating certainty, do I also dream in a hopeless way, like rereading Romeo and Juliet and unconsciously imagining that this time she might wake up before it's too late? And why, though I've already begun to mourn the failure, will it be no less devastating when I get the call?
If I were reading this, I would say, Nonsense, you can't know, you just can't know yet. Somehow, though, I can write it and it feels like simple fact.