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No one here is an asshat

Except, you know, me.

I feel sheepish for raising the alarm yesterday over something so trifling. It was trifling, the faintest single smear of beige. It did not worsen in color or volume. It did not return for an encore.

I am fine.

What worries me more than the scant tan spot is how little it takes to unhinge me entirely.

It seems right that any of us who've lost a pregnancy should feel a particular kind of sorrow and despair when a friend loses hers. It's...fitting. It's appropriate. But is it also right that someone else's loss should slam me back so quickly into reliving my own?

It may be right, but it doesn't feel fair. I'm angry that I can't look at a few faint smears and believe, really believe what I've read, what I've heard from my friends. I'm sad that my own good fortune feels so ephemeral. I'm embarrassed that my sanity and good sense have proven so fragile. I'm sorry to have alarmed you all, who humble me with your generosity — you're enormously kind to care.

I think any pregnant woman feels a jolt of fear when hearing about a loss. But a pregnant woman who's pregnant after infertility treatment, and one who's had miscarriages of her own, and one who sees even the most trivial hint of blood, well, she goes — I go — around the fucking bend.