It hit me again today, after shoving a quarter of a bag of chocolate chips into my mouth – I am not pregnant anymore.
I had my post-partum visit with the doctor this morning. Normally it would be at 6 weeks but we will be out of town. He got called in to surgery just after I arrived and when I saw him, 45 minutes later, he was still in scrubs. I knew that hearing his voice, seeing him, would be hard. His eyes were kind when he walked in the room and he apologized for keeping me waiting. I understood. Not long ago I was the emergency surgery that kept him from his appointments.
I am a good healer. He was pleased when he looked at my scar. He asked me how everything was going. I answered for my body, but not my heart. We talked about birth control. We talked about the chances of another pregnancy making it to term. He looked me in the eye and said There is no way to know. You need to heal, and then you need to decide if you can handle it if doesn’t work or if you’ll hit 42 and wish you’d tried one more time.
I appreciate his bluntness though he is often criticized for it. I trusted him to take me into surgery because of it. I asked about the placenta abrupting. Apparently it’s common in women with hypertension, cocaine users and occasionally low-risk pregnancies. He added that there is a slightly increased chance of it happening again. More signs pointing me toward the door marked “No More Biological Babies”.
He went to grab my hand as he left, looked me in the eye and gave me a hug. He walked out the door. I collapsed. My son is really dead. There is no longer a need for me to come to this office, to see this man, to hope that my body can hold on. We are done. The story of this pregnancy is over. All I can do now is slowly, achingly heal.
In other news I’ve lost a whopping five pounds. Sigh. It’s going to be a long road. Looks like I’m going to have to let go of my sugar addiction.