Two years later.

A lot of women who miscarry have problems with anniversaries. Sure, I remember some dates -- the very first time I was pregnant, the due date was supposed to be December 21; for my second miscarriage,  August 1; July 31 for the third and June 3 for the fourth.

I remember these dates but they really don't have any heat in them. I thought I was pretty impervious to date-ghosts. But the other day Her Indoors mentioned this year's Christmas Tree Festival. Now, I'm Jewish, but I love a good Christmas tree festival as much as the next girl, and of course Small Boy adores it.

And it was like a sock to the gut. 'Cause the last time time we were at the festival, I had a backache and was walking slowly because I was easily winded in that weird early-pregnancy way. That was what turned out to be the Sea Monkeys, miscarriage #3.

Why hasn't the date of my miscarriages bothered me before? Because duh, I've always managed to be pregnant again. First miscarriage, 5/08; in 5/09 I was pregnant with Small Boy. Second miscarriage, 12/11; by 12/12, pregnant again, although to no avail.

But I timed it wrong this round. By all rights I should have put off the transfer for another six weeks, so I could have been pregnant on the miscarriage-aversaries and then had that miscarriage at the traditional time of year.  But nooooooo. I had to do it early, so this year's miscarriage was in October, and so for the Christmas Tree Festival I'll be walking around not only not pregnant, but not even in the middle of a cycle.

I can't believe I'm here a year later, not only not having made any progress but having made negative progress. I have fewer embryos stored and I'm at higher risk for miscarriage, having had three in a row.

But I guess in a way I have made progress. I'm further along the road I'm going down, and I know that road is not endless. I'm closer to the point where I give up and start to Deal. If I'm going to subject myself to years of this pain for nothing, at least those years are drawing to a close.

Right now I feel like I'm grieving in slow motion. Not really, just kidding, maybe a little, if I mourn properly does it mean I'll then get what I want? I don't know whether to hang onto hope or just let it go. I wish I knew which the operative cliche was.

 I find myself reassuring people, friends, medical professionals. "It's okay!" I chirp. "I got my little guy!" And it's true but it's also not true. It's what good infertiles say, grateful ones, ones who don't think I should get to have what so many other people have. I am grateful, every day, grateful beyond breath for Small Boy and how he's spun my life and heart right around like a record, baby, I am, I truly am. But at the same time I'm angry that I'm supposed to be grateful and content with what it seems like practically the whole fucking world takes for granted.

The other day I walked past a box of First Response Early Result Pregnancy Test with FREE Keepsake Due Date Calculator! And I audibly scoffed. A keepsake due date calculator, after the first pee stick? Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aintcha?  And that's assuming it's positive. How many of those suckers get bitterly tossed into the trash?

But then I realized it's not that ridiculous. Most pregnancy tests are probably purchased by women who already suspect they're pregnant. Most positive pregnancy tests result in actual children. A keepsake due-date calculator on a two-pack of FRERs is utterly laughable from my point of view, but my point of view isn't representative. It's just my reality.

Small Boy is four, and we're going on lots of kindergarten tours, meeting lots of other families. This is the age interval when most families are mid-spawn, or have recently spawned. Lots of babies, lots of newborns, lots of big bellies, lots of brothers and sisters. I suppose in another five years or so it'll all simmer down other than the occasional "oops". That will be easier.