The World Mocks Me

I think the most terrifying moment in life is realizing the stick reads positive. I know that the most horrifying excruciating moment in life is realizing there is nothing you can do to save the life you have quickly grow to love more than yourself, your partner, or life itself.

After running through my list of a million things I could have done differently… coulda, shoulda, woulda… I find myself angry. It isn’t my fault…. Is it? Why doesn’t anyone… someone… care to figure out WHY this happened to me? Why this happens to anyone? Yes, I understand that most lost babies (I am disliking the “M” word today) are due to messed up, extra, or missing chromosomes. But what about the other percentage? The percent everyone seems to overlook. The percent of fuzzs that are love and longed for, have all of the correct physical attributes, yet leave us before they meet us? Why isn’t there someone looking into what happens to them. I get that the “M” word is common and most physicians don’t even blink when it happens. BUT WHY? Why isn’t there billions of dollars researching how to prevent the loss. I could find a million physicians to tell me how to get pregnant but not a single one to tell me how to STAY pregnant.

Maybe I am just angry today (again) but I am upset about more than just the usual.

Why can’t I seem to escape the millions of people getting pregnant or having babies. It is as though the whole British royal family is out to make be cry daily. Seriously, is it really news worthy to enough to have a reporter sitting outside the hospital that the baby MIGHT be born at? Do we really need to see another shot of the hospital doors … by the way, no royalty is even present yet!?! Beyond that, every 10 minutes someone on Facebook, or Twitter, or US Weekly is announcing they are expecting or some 15 year-old in front of me at Walmart is sporting an uncomfortably swollen tummy. Life mocks me as someone innocently comments “I will give you the chair. Who knows, maybe you are already pregnant.” Little so they know, I just stopped feeling like crap two days earlier.

Anyone who says they don’t feel anger or, dare I say, hatred towards the glowing faces that smile at you as they tug shirts down to cover newly enormous guts are liars. Grrrrr. I am mad. I don’t care if it is stupid, misdirected, or a waste of my energy. I don’t want to stop the rush of emotions that make me want to scream, cry, and punch people – all at the same time. Whatever. Clearly, I am not dealing with things rationally or, maybe, I am just in the anger phase of grief. I don’t care. This isn’t the first time I have been irrational and it probably won’t be the last. So everyone just needs to fucking get out of my way. I am sad. I am angry. I am not 10.5 weeks pregnant. Really that is it. Most people need to search for the root of their angry. Not me. That e-mail from thebump.com that announced “Today you are 10 weeks pregnant. Your baby is now growing….” nailed it on the head. My baby isn’t growing anything but weeds from underneath my wedding day love bush. Seriously, did I not remove my due date from your site? Take a hint.

Red Hands

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