A week out from my second miscarriage and necessary surgical procedure, I find myself wondering a lot. I think back to March and try to compare everything: emotions, pain, anesthesia, hormone levels, calendar dates, you name it and I considered it then and now. There are times I find this loss easier to process feeling like a seasoned expert, and times I come crashing down because, again. But mostly I simply allow all feelings to come up and tackle them in the here and now.
Which brings me to Thanksgiving:
I had this wonderful idea that at our friend’s dinner table, as we share our pieces of gratitude, I might offer up my status as 10 weeks pregnant and how glorious and thankful I felt for that opportunity. Of course now all I can muster up is my snarky appreciation for wine and pie, but that’s not entirely true.
I’m thankful for my husband, who holds me and cares for me and reminds me this struggle is ours together.
I’m thankful for my family, who simultaneously hates this loss while reminding me there’s always another chance, until there are no more chances and even then there are more options.
I’m thankful for my students who although they remind me of what I want more than anything right now in life, they also shower me with unconditional love and (mostly always) respect.
I’m thankful for my friends, who offer up their ear and hearts and bring over dinners.
I’m thankful for doctors I just met who treat me like a valuable patient, who are on a mission to help us.
I’m thankful for time, while it doesn’t heal it does help soothe.
I’m thankful for this outlet of writing.