Anniversaries, part 2

Today is the anniversary of what may now have the distinction of being my first miscarriage. And since I seem to be the subject of the world's biggest practical joke, it is also Take Your Children to Work Day at my office. Whoo hoo! Plus, there's this whole, 'is my pregnancy going to fail and when' question. Good times, really.

It's hard to know what's going on with my body: my breasts are still quite tender (I keep feeling myself up in the night to double-check), my mild nausea is still around (though is it ebbing? Is my stomach unhappy because I'm upset? Hard to tell), and my temperature is still really high (98.8 this morning, about as high as it ever gets.). I've had no spotting since Sunday, when I had a minuscule amount, and pretty much no cramping. WTF?

Emotionally I don't even know where to begin. Last time I was a mess from the moment I had the bad ultrasound. This time I'm numb and in shock. I feel like, I'm not sure I can afford to go there again. It just seems so obvious. This last two week wait made me crazy. I was tired of being depressed and despairing even when I was depressed and despairing. I identified with what Max's Mommy wrote about being sick of her infertility:

I'm tired of me. I'm tired of thinking about This all the time, writing about This all the time, talking about This all the time. I'm tired of hanging out at my very own personal Pity Party. The chips are stale and the music never changes. (For some reason it's Come On Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners. Makes me want to jam an ice pick into my eye socket. Repeatedly.) And don't get me started on the guest list, a boring navel-gazing crew which consists solely of Feeling, Sorry, For, Myself.

I'm kind of there, too. (But I love "Come On Eileen," and the cookies at my party are always fantastic.) Maybe -- probably -- my somewhat stoic black humor will evolve to massive fits of sobbing. But when you pile upon the logistical challenge of getting pregnant as a lesbian, a miscarriage, a year of unexplained infertility, the reluctant decision to have one more IUI and then move to IVF, and then a second probable failed pregnancy that -- just to pour some kosher salt into the wound and stir it around real good -- would have yielded not one but two children: I mean, if that isn't the universe flipping you the bird, what is?

I'm Jewish but not very good at it. In Jewish tradition, you light a Yarzheit candle in memory of someone's death. Judaism doesn't have a ritual for miscarriage, nor does it even recognize a person's existence until something like 40 days after birth. But I always thought I'd light a candle today for last year's miscarried embryo. But given where I am now, I'm not sure I can do it. Last year, after I miscarried, I went to the beach, wrote a letter to what would have been my first baby, said the Mourner's Kaddish, and cried. The letter, the ultrasound picture, and the positive pregnancy tests are in an envelope labeled #1.

I cannot believe I may have to label a second envelope #2 and #3.