I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the OB. The same one I saw last time I was in the office for my miscarriage. The same one who broke my water with Alex.
Since the initial spotting, I’ve felt not much at all. No more spotting. My uterus feels non-specifically weird. Could be the Crohn’s. Could be the start of the miscarriage.
But I’ve given up completely. I hold out absolutely no more hope at all. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t blindly hope for the best anymore. I’m tapped out of hope, of well-wishes, of happiness. I’ve been struggling mightily before now, and now that this is following a familiar path, I’m just at a loss.
And I’m just so tired of this; so weary of it all.
If this is the beginning of the end like I’m pretty sure it is, I’m done with the idea of a third child. I simply cannot do this to myself again. I can’t go through the worrying, the anguish, the stress again.
I’ve planned what I will do when this fails: I’m leaving town for awhile. By myself. I will tell no one where I’m going, and I will be alone for a couple of days. I’ve not had a chance to properly mourn anything at all; not my beloved Steph, not my two previous miscarriages, nothing. I’ve been too busy being forced to be something for someone else.
I can’t help but feel that tonight is the last time that the Sausagebryo and I will be together. And I want to tell it how sorry I am. I’d really have liked a third child. Even if it meant a mini-van and more stretch marks. I’m so sorry ickle one. I’m just so sorry.
I’d say I was comfortably numb, but there’s nothing comfortable about it.