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Just so goddamned sad

Paul and I talked this morning while standing in the dark in the upstairs hallway. He said, "If this doesn't work out, I guess we'll want a long break."

I don't, at least not at the moment. I tried to explain how gladhearted I'd felt before Monday, how truly glad, and how wrenching it feels to be so close. How I'd known I wanted it, but hadn't really understood how much until now, when it seems to be slipping away. How I couldn't stand the thought of losing this pregnancy only to face more waiting, more months of standing still, delay in regaining the ground we're currently losing.

I know Paul's sad, too, and he might indeed need some time to regroup if this pregnancy fails. He'd just begun to get comfortable with the idea that it was actually going to work, shyly venturing ideas for what we could do to prepare or names he might like. I surprised him in his office this morning sifting through journal abstracts — same as I'd done yesterday. He wants to believe as much as I do that everything will turn out all right in the end.

I want to believe, but I can't claim I do. I've been drinking oceans of water in the absurd hope that somehow the gestational sac will plump up swiftly. It's the only thing I can think of to do, but even as I drown myself I know it's ridiculous.

This evening I felt some low-grade cramping. It didn't last long, and it was nothing even remotely like the cramps I'd felt when I'd taken Cytotec. But I thought, "This is how it'll begin."

Then, because my powers of denial are magnificent indeed, I thought, "Well, maybe it's just the sac expanding."

I'm just so goddamned sad.