A year ago today, I found I was pregnant with what turned out to be my ectopic pregnancy (for extra added pathos, I should add that May 12 last year was Mother's Day). In my mind, the next few weeks are like a tunnel, at the end of which is the actual loss anniversary (June 2). I know from going through the November-December-January tunnel of my miscarriage anniversary that I'll spend the next few weeks obsessing about how I felt last year at this time, and how much has changed since then.
I once read that you don't truly get over a pregnancy loss until you've carried a subsequent pregnancy to term. At the time, fresh off of my miscarriage, I wholeheartedly believed that statement. Of course, back then, I thought I'd probably either be pregnant or have a new baby by the time my loss anniversary rolled around. The possibility of that new life insulated me somewhat, allowing me to blunt the edge of my grief by believing it to be a passing pain. Even after the ectopic, I believed that we'd still manage to get pregnant again soon, if not naturally, then surely in our first round of IVF. Now, with the passing of an entire year since I was last pregnant, and with a new pregnancy nowhere on the horizon (at this point, I'm taking it for granted that next week's FET will fail), I find that deferred grief sneaking in.
I'm pretty sure that's why I've been so sad lately, although I suspect Lupron and Estrogen also have a hand in it. Though I have moments of happiness and pleasure, it's been a rough few weeks overall. Everything just feels so hopeless these days. What I'd really like to do is curl up in bed with a stack of books, my Gilmore Girls DVDs and a bag of puffcorn, and stay there until August 2 (the day after my twins would have turned one). Instead, I go to the gym and snarl at my trainer when she dares to suggest I pick up my dumbells and do upper-body while my treadmill's at an alarming level-10 incline. I spend a good amount of time imaging how I'd verbally eviscerate anyone who pisses me off at any given moment (I am not so far gone as to actually open my mouth, but in my head, I am a bitch of wheels). And I take M to the park, to the pool, to the bounce house; anything to keep her happy and keep her from sensing how I'm really feeling.