Back at sea
As miscarriages go, I have to say that I got off easy--no worse, pain-wise, than a period, and the emotional weight of it was easy enough to bear. After all, we had given up on trying before I got pregnant, and the pregnancy itself was so clearly not viable that I didn't let myself get attached to the idea of it. I didn't look up the due date; there was no secret name-planning; no furtive rummage through my old maternity clothes, just in case.
So when Jeff and I started cleaning out the garage last week and the baby paraphernalia was exposed, I expected to feel a brief wistfulness, a touch of melancholy. And I did, and I suppressed it, and suggested to Jeff that we give away the swing, the bouncer, the playpen. I thought it might be the best way to move on.
But Jeff, my gentle Jeff, seemed beyond surprised that I would even think of such a thing: We might still need these! There's still a chance! You were just pregnant--it could work again!
And that's when I lost it. Standing there in our driveway, amidst the bins of baby clothes and outgrown toys, I broke down, shuddering, sobbing, kicked in the gut by the reality of this loss, by how much I would have wanted this baby that couldn't be, and most of all by how much Jeff wanted it to work.
He wants to keep trying, and I...I'm just lost. My wants and intentions are in a matted knot that I do not have the will or patience to untangle.