He arrived-

Our new nephew was born early on the morning of the eighth. He arrived safely, with little fanfare; just as he should. Alive. Healthy. Perfect.

Everyone is so happy.

I'm happy for them, really. But I've had moments off and on all day- mini pity parties I guess you would say. I really hate feeling this way. I hate being so bitter, so jaded, so angry, so sad- I hate infertility, I hate pregnancy loss. I feel disgusted with myself when I start whining to someone about how unfair it is- life's not fair, and I freakin' know that. And I know what a precious gift it is for her. And I am so ardently happy that they don't know this pain.

But still. It's hard.

I feel fine and then I don't. I feel dislocated, amputated. It's easy to feel that way since we haven't been to the hospital, haven't smelled the scent of new life, haven't talked to them personally- only through impersonal text, impersonal FB messaging, through a nice shield of technology to keep the real and the all too real separate.

I'm sure when we visit next week, it will hit me more fully.

I laid in bed this morning after work, and waited for sleep. It was hard to come by, chased often by loose thoughts. I took them in, let them pass, took them in, tried to process and fail, fought to get to sleep. Before I went to sleep I shed a few tears for what I realized was part of the bigger sadness over it all... they have the life that we should have had. Not to say they shouldn't have had it too, but they have the life we honestly thought we would have... we thought we would, and then we didn't. They thought they would, and then they did.

I can see the whole future-that-should have been unfolded before us. I can see where things went wrong, and how it could have went right. How things could have fell into place, like it did for them, and how our life would be. I never unfold this future, it hurts too much. I tuck it away and hide it, I pretend it never existed.

But now, here is this replica of that old life-that-never-existed... in front of us, unfolding on it's own and in it's own unique way.

And we are watching it, and remembering what was lost.

If I hadn't stopped ovulating at twenty-one... If I hadn't lost the first baby... If I hadn't lost the second baby... If I hadn't lost the third... If life hadn't been so intent on giving me lessons on how to be kicked when you're already down...

No matter what happens now, that future is never achievable. That ship has sailed on without us. We are not the same people, our situation is not the same, our expectations are no longer the same, what we want is not the same. Even if a successful pregnancy is achieved, my husband and I will not rejoice until we hold a living breathing child in our arms. Even if said pregnancy is achieved we will never feel the way we might have before the first doctor told us we might never have children. We will never feel the way we did before the first miscarriage. We will never feel the way we did again. There will be no excitement from our families- not until we reach a certain point, because even they will sometimes acknowledge our history. Whatever way we become parents, the type of parent we are will be different- we will be more cautious, more protective, more paralyzed with fear that something will happen. We would have anyway, but now I know I will be all that more scared. Because we have struggled so hard, and lost so much.

No, that future is never achievable. Yet I continue to mourn it. I mourn the perpetual loss of it, because it didn't just leave us overnight- it happened over the course of years. Years.

One of the other things it's brought up, is the loss of my pregnancies. I should have a two year old, a one year old, a newborn... they should be children... instead of this unresolved longing, this aching grief. I miss them... even if pretty much no one else does.

As I said, there are a lot of emotions going on and I'm still processing.