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A Dark and Scary Road

Before I became pregnant for the very first time and subsequently miscarried, I was a woman that liked to live life. I was a new wife to a wonderful nerd that I married barefoot in the sand on the island of Jamaica. I was a person that loved to drink booze and partake in the legal greenery of my state. I was someone who woke up late and snuggled with my dog because I was unemployed and had nowhere to be and my husband makes just enough so I don't have to work. I was the kind of person that called her parents on a regular basis, and sent all kinds of ridiculous text messages to her sister about amazing SyFy movies like "Sharknado." I was an auntie that couldn't get enough of my five-year-old niece's company. I was a Gchatting/Facebooking/phone-talking maniac with all of my friends. I was someone you wanted to have at your party because I'm fun and funny and love to have a good time, whether it's game night or shot shot shot shot shots shots! I was the girlfriend you love to have as your wing woman, 'cause I'm cute and outgoing and wifed up, so I pull 'em in and you can take 'em home. I was someone that couldn't wait for that little green fertile calendar on my pregnancy app so I could give my husband a good rummaging.

I was a pregnant woman, freaking out about being pregnant because even with all that planning and talk about making a baby, I was scared as shit when I saw my positive pregnancy test. I was so angry at myself for not being excited about being pregnant. I was obsessed with all the things I had to give up (booze, weed, sushi, lox, over-easy eggs) and my husband didn't have to give up anything. I was worried that something was wrong with the baby; I was crazy, irritable and couldn't believe I was going to be a mother. Crazy Face herself was going to bring life into the world ... but I was happy. It wasn't all that long ago, two weeks actually, since I had a D&C.

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You might be thinking what the hell is a D&C? It's not something you learn about, unless you have to, because it's the procedure they do to you when you find out there is something wrong with your baby, when you have something called a "missed miscarriage." When your body doesn't know your baby is no longer living and you still think you are pregnant. They remove the contents of your uterus, and you're not pregnant anymore. That's what stage I am at in TTC (Trying to Conceive): I just lost my little baby and my heart is broken.

I am a woman who had a miscarriage and has told essentially everyone I know.

I decided to share the terrible news on Facebook, accompanied with a piece of writing I had sent out to my family, because talking is just too painful for me right now. I was shocked and saddened by how many of my friends and family members wrote to me about their miscarriages — so many of them had told no one. They suffered alone. No one should go through this on their own because of feeling ashamed or being scared to tell people. So that's who I am now, a woman who felt all the fear and joys at the possibility of bringing a new life into the world, only to have it taken away just as I was getting used to the idea.

I am a woman who had a miscarriage and has told essentially everyone I know. I'm not fun anymore. I cry a lot; I haven't talked to my family since we had our second ultrasound, the one where there was no heartbeat. I write in my journal and I scroll through Facebook and I watch T.V., and I eat junk food. I am trying to take care of myself, and be kind to myself because the old me can't be all gone, she has to come back. I miss her and I know my husband misses her too.

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I have been taking my prenatal vitamins because, although my husband and I are still grieving, and I am terrified of trying again, we have one tiny hope we are nurturing a little bit each day: After I have physically healed, we can try again. I would be lying if I said that I am thrilled with the possibility. It's frightening. I'm 36; I am afraid that I am too old and we won't be able to conceive again or that the same thing will happen — that I will have multiple miscarriages, because there is maybe something wrong with me. People talk about pregnancy as a journey. The word "journey" conjures up so many pleasant images for me — a long road full of adventure, ending in a beautiful place, completing something. Well, I am looking down the road and it is dark and scary and we don't know what is going to happen. I'm not excited and nervous and giddy with the thought that we might get pregnant. That was the old me.

Now, I am apprehensive, scared, worried and unsure. But there is one thing. It's the tiniest hint of something that makes the tears come over and over: Maybe, just maybe, we'll have good luck this time and we'll make our little monster and it will wreak havoc over our lives and keep us up all night and make us take care of him/her even after he/she graduates from college and we will have to send money as he/she travels all over the world making poor decisions, just like her/his mama. Then maybe she/he will activate his/her father's smarts and change the world, make millions, be happy and take care of her old parents.

I realize that's a great deal of pressure for my imaginary kid, but when you're trying to make a baby after a loss, I think you must have hopes and dreams to shed some light on the terrible darkness that a miscarriage brings. I have hope that one of these days, I will wake up foggy from my dreams and my hand won't go to my belly when I remember what's real. Tears won't prick my eyes when my husband leaves for work. I have hope I will stop using my dog as a tissue, as she squeaks to get away sometimes when I hold her too tightly. I have hope that one of these days I will get out of bed and my womb will be healed and my body will say, "I'm ready."

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