Two years.

Two years ago my brother died.

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it.
Death cannot kill what never dies.
Nor can spirits ever be divided, that love and live in the same divine principle, the root and record of their friendship.
If absence be not death, neither is theirs.
Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still.
For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent.
In this divine glass they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure.
This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal

-William Penn

Recurrent Pregnancy Loss- Habitual aborter without current pregnancy.

The girl who cried wolf.

Well. I didn’t think I’d ever be here. Those words. They raise my hackles. I am not an aborter. An aborter is a mother that chooses to destroy her child. Who chooses herself first. Who chooses to go forward alone, leaving pregnancy behind. Who chooses.  Its an ugly ugly word. One with no place among women swimming in grief. It implies a selfish act. Not a devastating reality that these women would give anything to have be different.

It’s been a long long time since I have graced this blog with any new posts. And after the last six months I got to where I needed an outlet, somewhere  where I could therapeutically release the angst I am holding.

Two weeks ago we found out about our second miscarriage. Second in seven months.

I have had to announce and retract pregnancy news twice.

We went on Friday to meet with a specialist. Someone whose job it is to fix broken women. To run test after test on women until they have answers or they run out of money.

Our new doctor outlined a game plan he belived in. Gave us odds and a timeline. Gave us pamphlet after pamphlet and a sheet outlining where our thousands will be going. But he got to leave the room and go on to the next helpless case. He wasn’t left with a handful of paper and dreams that are circling the drain.

There are two ways to look at our odds.

There is a 70-80% chance our next pregnancy will be completely fine. That sounds reassuring right? High numbers.

There is a 20-30% chance you will lose another baby. That’s more like it. When normal women are given a 10-15% chance… 30% is damn high.

Then we look at the odds we have faced over the last four pregnancies. Amniotic Band Syndrome 1:15000 (0.006%) Death by ABS? Even more rare. Nailed that one.

First miscarriage? Made it to 6 weeks- 8.4% chance of miscarriage.  (Baby was due March 22, 2015. 9 weeks diagnosed missed miscarriage.)

Second miscarriage? 15-20% chance. Lightning never strikes the same place twice right? Wrong.  (Baby was due Aug 12^th, 2015. Bleeding at 11 weeks, confirmed miscarriage days later. Baby never grew.)

I am batting at a 25% success rate for pregnancies. 1:4 are alive. My body has killed three. Three.

What is to stop me from looking at my history and assuming the next pregnancy will be anything less than a bad outcome.

Those lines. Those damn positive double lines that should fill me with joy and excitement now will bring fear. Anxiety. Hopelessness. Inevitability. Resignation.

“Your next one might be fine. Don’t worry. You haven’t killed any babies Holly. It’s not going to happen again. Maybe it is in Gods plan.”

I don’t want to hear it.

Do you blame me? If our next pregnancy is fine… If we even want to get back on that fucking horse- then I don’t want to hear it.

It would be a miracle and I recognize it. Don’t try and fix me. Words will not make me better. Your cousin’s sisters aunt that had this happen went on to have 8 healthy children and won the lottery. Congradufreakinglations. Let me morn.

Hope is the most dangerous thing to give to anyone. I don’t want it.

Freaking 2015.