My soul is adrift. I've been assured that somewhere up ahead there will be sunshine- perhaps even a rainbow- someday, but for now I'm just trying to navigate the choppy waters.
Emails exchanged, phone calls made, appointments scheduled. Check. Check. Check.
I now know the date of my D&C: January 24th. I've always loved the number twenty-four and I sorely hope that this experience doesn't ruin it for me. I want the finalization of my plans to focus me, but it only causes me unease.
The threshold for my discomfort over what must be just keeps dropping. Where once I saw some assurance in the declining levels of HCG, I find only renewed panic. Did they really drop enough to show proof- absolute, inarguable proof, of inviability? They drop again, but I'm still questioning my doctor, asking her to repeat herself again and again; explain to me once more exactly why the decline cannot be indicative of anything else.
Ultimately, the discussion goes back to the scans. We should have seen growth, we should have seen change. But I keep going back to my body, my physical experience. Without all of this crazy, blessed technology I'd have had no knowledge of my own internal tragedy up to this point. I still don't have a form of proof in front of me that I can really get my head around. In the end, I'm putting all of my faith in the tests that various medical staff have run, interpreted, and flashed the results of before my horrified eyes.
I trust them enough not to string myself along with false hope. But do I trust them enough to let them take this pregnancy from me, erase it as though it never was? I don't know if I'll ever be able to provide an unwavering "yes" to that question, but I intend to spend the next week trying, with all of my might.
One more ultrasound, one more blood draw, and perhaps I can finally make peace with what must be done.
Once it is done, maybe then I can finally set my sights on making peace with what has happened. If the storm's end lies in any direction, it must be that one.