two years. in twenty-eight days, my baby will be two years old. and while i can’t wait for that milestone for him, for us, the number i can’t get out of my head is fourteen. fourteen months that i’ve been trying to get him a baby brother, or sister.. fourteen months i’ve been trying.. dying for another pregnancy. and in truth, i suppose i can’t complain, because in that year and two months, i’ve actually had positive tests two separate times.
what i can’t tell you, is if that’s better than none at all. do you know what it’s like to get your hopes up before something happens? do you know what it’s like to have your hope happen, only to have it ripped away?
i do. twice.
how do you keep having more hope? the saying is “asking for a friend”; i am undoubtedly asking for myself. is getting your hopes up not more painful than never having hope at all? i keep encouraging myself to have hope “for the baby”, “don’t you want to look back and know you were positive waiting for her??”. well, what about the last twelve times i’ve been optimistic only to get some of the hardest news i’ve encountered, that my body didn’t support what i prayed for?
is it not kinder to not have expected at all?
is hope that cruel?
does hope remember what it took from me?
i know, i do, i’m already luckier than many to have our son. the question i pose is, when was the last time you tried something twelve times? and those twelve times took FORTY days each to find out the results? only to find out you failed? every single time?
and somehow you [willingly] kept trying??
i suppose it’s selfish, of me to post this. i hate pity, anyone who knows me knows i’m too prideful for that. i guess i’m just hoping to share.. for empathy?.. am i just questioning hope?.. or maybe just looking for other of women stuck in this cloud-filled sky.. desperately waiting for my storm to pass, waiting for my rainbow.