No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop hope.
I want to scream when well-meaning friends hand out the weathered advice, “Just stop thinking about it and it will happen.” Don’t they realize I can’t kill that instinct of hope? It keeps beating despite my attempts to smother it.
And each month I try to convince myself, “I am not pregnant.” But inside, secretly, I am hoping, planning.
The worst time of the month is those last few days. With swollen, painful breasts, I tell myself it’s just pre-menstrual nothing more. But I hope anyway. I count the days. I do the math over and over.
This morning I get the news as I step into the shower. I let out a little whimper and try to stand up as the waves of grieve crash in. I am grateful for at least ten minutes of privacy to grieve as I step into the steam of the shower. And I cry silently without tears as the hot water tries to soothe me.
I have given it over to God months ago. But it doesn’t feel like it. I know I am supposed to leave it there and walk in surrender. And in some ways I suppose I have. But that doesn’t stop the grief, the loss I feel every month as a new hope dies. Each month it seems I lose a new baby. Each month the chance of meeting that new life is gone again.
I finish my shower, get dressed and go downstairs. I don’t feel too sorry for myself. How can I? I am so lucky. My sweet son is waiting for me. His eyes light up as I come in the room and he asks me to play with him.
I am a mother and I am so very, very grateful.