It's such an ugly word.
This is my first blog post in a very long time, and it's about something that is so intensely personal that I haven't discussed it with many of my real life friends. It needs to be talked about, though.
I never should have expected a first pregnancy to progress normally. Things generally don't seem to go as planned with my body, and I have spent enough time in doctors' offices to know this. I still hoped, though, that this was my time for things to go right. Not so much, as it turns out.
While I know that in reality, it's not my fault, it is still difficult to accept that my body failed to do what it was supposed to do, and in the process it not only hurt me, which I'm used to, but it failed my husband, too. I feel like a failure. The irony, of course, was that my body couldn't even have a miscarriage correctly. I had to have medical help to even finish the process of losing a pregnancy.
I felt like a failure as I sat in the emergency room, waiting for a RhoGAM shot. I felt like a failure as I sat in the emergency room again, a week later, waiting for a second dose of methotrexate.
I think the most upsetting part of a miscarriage is that the next time I see the pink line, or the digital "Pregnant" readout, I will not be nearly as excited as I was last time. Instead, I will be cautious, and afraid to really believe until I've seen a doctor. That really sucks.
