Anyway, I promised myself I'd be 100% open on this blog with regards to my reproductive issues (whatever they may be) because I originally started this thing in hopes of making somebody, somewhere feel a little less alone—but at the same time, I really don't want the entire IRL world to know all of my private business.
After mulling it over for a few days, I've decided that while I have no idea who the hell reads this thing—or who may stumble upon it in the future—it's important for me to be honest with you.
So here goes.
I'm having a miscarriage. As I type this, I'm losing a fourth baby. Well, I guess waiting to lose it would be a more accurate statement. My poor stupid body is hanging onto a doomed pregnancy.
I'm sad, but more than that, I'm angry. I'm angry that after dozens of tests and painful procedures last year, nothing turned up anywhere. I believe in bad luck. I don't believe in this kind of bad luck. What the fuck is going on?
When I realized this pregnancy was most likely over a few nights ago, I snatched Arlo out of his rock 'n play and brought him into bed with me. I held his tiny hand, kissed his scrumptious cheeks a thousand times, and soaked his wild and wonderful hair with my tears.
And marveled at what a miracle he really is.
Danny and I have made five babies (just typing out that number makes me sick), and only one—our sweet, perfect Arlo—was able to join us in this world.
I'm doing my best to treat this loss as a reminder—albeit a painful one—of how truly blessed we are to have Arlo.