Gentle Reader, I have a confession to make.
I am guilty of allowing hope to creep into my heart. I’m afraid that I have managed to subconscioulsy convince myself that we are going to still see a heartbeat tomorrow. Sure, I’m toeing the line of saying, “expecting the worst, the other shoe to drop, etc” but I find that I lack that conviction. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had any bright red spotting, maybe it’s because the nausea and sore boobs continue. Maybe it’s because I still feel pregnant (and bloated).
I haven’t told Sweetie (who gives our chances at about 15% that things will work out) because I know what he will say (which is what I say to myself already): you are setting yourself up for disappointment.
I try to visualize the appointment I had with Dr. Uterus when he found that I was going to miscarry the first time. I try to remind myself of the utter shock and pain that I felt at the suckerpunch I had received after the weeks of blissful innocence and lack of drama.
Or maybe, I’m just giddy at knowing that by this time tomorrow we will have an answer and mistaking it for hope. Maybe I’m so exhausted of the back and forth that I’m drunk on not worrying about it. Whatever it is, I’m surprisingly calm and collected. Peaceful, in fact. These are not the emotions of a girl who is supposedly expecting for the other shoe to drop.
You may ask what is wrong with a little hope? Absolutely nothing. What is wrong is what I do with hope – I magnify it, extrapolate it and turn it into all kinds of balloon animals. In other words, I just take and take and take like a freshman at their first keg stand. I can’t have some hope. It’s either hope or no hope. Just the way I’m made.
But, still, I prefer just not to think about tomorrow, not think about the big P, not think about anything.