In the middle, there have been a few moments of clarity. In one of those moments, when I knew we were hours away from saying goodbye, I pulled out my iPhone and typed out the following:

You are always afraid it will happen to you, but the truth is, you actually think it never will.

And the kindest irony: when it does happen to you, it’s actually not as scary as you imagined it would be.

A few weeks ago, in a moment of weakness and fear, I told my husband that if something happened to our baby boy I would march myself straight to a mental hospital and ask to be sedated for the rest of my life. I truly believed that this is what I would do.

I know I haven’t reached the breaking point yet – that is still to come. In the days, weeks, months, and even years ahead, the events of the last few days will start to sink in and feel real, and what now feels like a horrific nightmare will be ingrained in my memory as the clearest reality. I am still in the calm before the storm. But one thing is clear: I will carry on.

And you all have helped me understand that. I have seen the outpouring. The emails. The comments. The blog posts. I know there is more, and I still have to process it all. One thing is clear: I have never in my entire life felt so loved by so many.

In his final hours, I promised Nadav I would live well for him. I felt at the time as if I hadn’t lived well until then. You have proven to me that somehow, in the last year of typing out words on my laptop, in what I thought was isolation, I was living well, because somehow in my ramblings, I was connecting. You have helped me see where meaning will come from all of this.

I will live well for him. I will live better. And you all have given me the strength to believe that I can.

For that, I am forever grateful.

Please forgive me in advance if my commenting is still lacking for the next short while.

So here’s what you’ve missed:

Two weeks ago we went in for a check up to see how my cervix was doing and we got a peek at Shmaby. My cervix was still going strong at 3cm, and Shmaby was measuring right on target, but seeing as this is me, things can’t just be fine and dandy.

The Russian noticed that I had excess amniotic fluid. This basically means one of three things:

1. Nothing.
2. Gestational Diabetes
3. Something’s wrong with Shmaby

The Russian decided to take a “wait and see” approach. In Israel, you basically have two “level II” scans. One at around 16 weeks, and the second sometime between 22 and 23 weeks. So he just said we’ll see what the scan brings. My glucose test thingy will be happening when I’m 24 weeks.

So basically, for the last two weeks I’ve been terrified that something is wrong with the little one (of course). GD is not something I’m too worried about. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have it (after all, so far I’ve had practically every other complication under the sun), and I know it’s pretty manageable. Sure, it would be no fun. But nothing much about this pregnancy has been fun so far. I’ll manage.

But there’s still a bit of a chance that something was missed or was too small to show up at our 16 week scan. Yes, it’s only a small chance. But it’s there. And I’m terrified.

That’s why I’ve been waiting with bated breath until next Wed. That’s when I’ll know with at least some assurance whether Shmaby is Ok. And until then, well, catatonic zombie mode pretty much continues.

Going into our first major scan, I admit, I was starting to feel optimistic. I came into the Russian’s office with a long list of questions, but mostly mundane “what can I do about my horrible heartburn” type-stuff. Nothing serious. I was looking forward to seeing Shmaby, finding out the sex, etc. etc.

Of course, all of those questions went right out the window with the IC diagnosis, the cerclage, and the bed rest.

Going into next Wed. I once again have a laundry list of questions. About choosing our hospital, whether I can consider taking pre-natal yoga with the cerclage, that kind of thing.

And of course, I know that at the end of this scan, either I will finally get to ask my questions, or Shmerson and I will once again be thrown into a brand new spiral of worry.

I’m 22 weeks tomorrow, and we’ve done nothing to prepare for the fact that a baby is most likely entering our home in a few months. Not even a single onesie has been bought. I haven’t started looking into birthing classes. I haven’t toured any of our area hospitals. I haven’t even set foot in a baby store. Or even a maternity store  (and I need one pretty badly, I’m stretching my bras down to the thread).

I can’t do it any of it yet. I just can’t. Not until we get some concrete answers about Shmaby.

Eventually I know I have to draw a line and get going on these things. I’ve spent two years preoccupied with getting and staying pregnant. I haven’t spent even a single minute figuring out how to change a diaper or breast feed. These are things I need to learn how to do, and if all goes well, I don’t have much time to study up.

I thought the line would be 24 weeks – viability. But after our last appointment I now know the true line is 22 and half weeks. Because that’s when we’ll know if he’s ok.

That’s when I’ll either finally pull out my list of questions or have a whole new set of them pop up within minutes of the scan (along with a whole lot of heartache).

And then –  if all goes well –  maybe I’ll buy some maternity bras and a couple of new pairs of undies. Spaghetti Monster knows I need them. Maybe I’ll even consider buying the little guy his first onesie and ordering some stuff for the nursery.

But first I need to know he’s Ok.

“The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months.”

I spent half an hour on that sentence, because of one word I kept writing and deleting: Hopefully.

The little boy that will hopefully come into our lives in a few months.

I wrote it. I deleted it. I looked at the sentence, and wrote the word again. Over and over at least 10 times before I ultimately deleted the word.

Then it took me another 5 minutes to hit publish. It was nuts. I couldn’t bring myself to write about him as if he was a sure thing, yet I could write about him as if he wasn’t.

What finally decided it was one fact that I know for sure: No matter what happens, he is already a part of our lives.

7 days until the anatomy scan. Holding my breath.

You’ve held my hair as I heaved over the toilet and we both cheered.

You’ve cleaned up my puke when I couldn’t make it there on time.

You’ve taken Luna out for every walk in the last 3 months.

You’ve stared at me protectively and ordered me to sit when you felt I was doing too much.

You’ve washed every dirty dish in the house.

You’ve cooked dinner while carefully avoiding the food I can’t manage to look at or stomach.

You’ve held my hand, and wandered through hospital corridors to make sure I felt safe while trying to help our baby boy.

You’ve cried with me when we’ve been afraid for him.

You’ve laughed with me, and cried tears of joy (and sometimes tears of fear) each time we’ve seen him on the ultrasound screen.

You’ve told me I’m beautiful almost every night, even while I was feeling fat and gross (and you looked like you meant it, which makes it all the more remarkable).

You’ve lamented not being a sea horse, so you could carry some of my burden.

Each time I’ve cried about my body failing me, you’ve reminded me that it’s working a miracle for both of us as we speak.

Each time I think it’s impossible to love you more, you surprise me and make me fall in love with you all over again.

Happy Valentines Day, my amazing husband. The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

PS – Thank you everyone who’s emailed and tweeted to check in on me. I’ve been terrible about replying, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m still in a bit of a coping-zombie-bubble. Hope to be back with all of you soon. Xoxo!

I swore I would update often, and keep the spirit of this blog alive. I swore I would continue to comment on everyone else’s blogs. That I would be present.

Little did I know.

I get it now. I understand why they disappear. For the same reason I haven’t really been present here for a while. It’s time I just come to terms with it.

The ALI community is a double-edged sword. We band together for support, and in the worst of times, we are there for each other.

But that’s the problem as well. We are here in the worst of times.

Before I came here I was alone. More alone than I had ever felt in my life.

I found friends here. Women who understood me better than I understood myself.

The problem is that in this space I became part of a screaming minority. We are the women on the bad end of the statistics. We are the worst-case scenarios. We are the 30% of miscarriages. The 5% of post-D&C infections that mess up our systems. The ectopics. The stillbirths. The preemies. The genetic anomalies. The placental abruptions. The incompetent cervixes. We are the embodiment of every horror story. Our collective pain and loss are endless.

I’ve gotten a couple of emails in the last few weeks asking me why I barely blog any more. The truth is that it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I’m between a rock and a hard place.

On one hand, I am unendingly lucky. Tomorrow, I will officially be at the halfway point of this pregnancy. Shmaby is moving around, making himself more known to me every day. I am eternally grateful for that. I even feel guilty for having it. I know there are thousands of women out there who would kill to be in my shoes.

On the other hand, I am a part of this community. I am a woman who’s body has failed her too many times to count. I don’t trust my body any more. I don’t trust it to keep my baby safe until he is ready to come into this world. That won’t change until I get proven wrong.

I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been following along with everyone. I’ve been feeling too guilty to comment on the blogs of women still going through the torture of IF and RPL. And I’ve been fueling my anxiety by reading continuously about the pain and loss that keeps on happening in our little universe.

Today I finally broke down and confessed to Shmerson that I am not doing as well as I have been pretending to do. I am, more or less, where I was before my first breakdown a year ago. I spend my days emotionally detached. Willing myself to just make it through one more day. Sleeping as much as I can so the time passes by faster. Keeping away from the people and the things I love.

Because if I stop and look around, the fear gets to be too much. I imagine the worst case scenarios, because I know them so well. I imagine them and know I wouldn’t have the strength to deal with another setback. That if something goes wrong I would march into a hospital and demand to be put in a coma. I am tired. I am worn out. I am scared. I hate myself for it.

Every day I feel Him move I love him more. I worry for him more. And living inside the worst-case scenarios that are part of this community is fueling the fire.

I go into BL blogs and read the stories. I find myself obsessively checking for symptoms of early labor, holding my breath in the hopes that nothing goes wrong. That my body decides not to fail me for a change.

I hate myself for doing it. I hate myself for not being able to just be there for those who are suffering loss, and at the same time rejoice in  the fact that my baby is here. Healthy, and growing, and kicking up a storm.

I spend my days fueling the anxiety fire more and more.

Today Shmerson kindly requested that I stop doing that.

I think I need a break.

I feel terrible. How dare I take a break from this community when you guys have been there for me at the worst of times? It’s my responsibility to stick it out for you.

But I also need to take care of myself. I need to stop living in this constant fear loop.

It’s not like I’m being particularly insightful or engaging anyway as of late, so I figure I won’t be missed much if I disappear for a few weeks.

And I think I need it for my sanity.

So – I’m sorry. I love you guys, but I’m giving myself a breather. I’ll be back here at our 24 week anatomy scan. Hopefully viability will calm my nerves enough for me to be present again.

Hopefully there is no reason for me to be back here sooner.

I love you all. I’m still here if you need me via email. I just need to reboot my sanity. I hope you forgive me and come back when I return.

And I hope to see a crapload of healthy pregnancies when I get back.

See you then.

Honestly, after reading her news, I feel kind of selfish for even writing about what’s been going on in my head. Though on the other hand, it’s precisely these moments that keep me sober, and scared.

I’m 19 weeks today. Almost half way. A few days ago I started feeling him move in a much more defined way than ever before. I sang to him, and he responded by giving me a swift kick in the bladder. It was miraculous. I cried for ages afterward, just in awe of him.

A few days ago I was talking to Shmerson, when he admitted he was scared to go to that wedding last week. He was scared because he knew we’d have fun, and every single time in the past that we’ve had fun while I was pregnant, something has gone horribly wrong.

This is what we’ve come to. We can’t go out and have fun, because something will obviously go wrong. Ahh, the joys of PTSD.

I feel like I’m holding my breath until we reach viability. Or, if I’m really being honest, I’m holding my breath until our Shmaby comes out safe, sound, and healthy.

I have not bought one piece of baby clothing. I have not bought one maternity related item (even though I’m really starting to need a few things). I have not posted funny little anecdotes about my insane cravings. I have done nothing to prepare for if when (who knows) our baby comes into this world. Because I’m holding my breath. I’m not doing a thing every day except keeping myself busy in between “What if”s.

I think that so much has gone wrong for us so often that it’s become impossible for me to imagine that things can go right. It’s much easier for me to visualize a worst-case scenario, because we’ve been there so many times before. In my world, my body fails me more often than not. That is a fact that has just been compounded by this incompetent cervix diagnosis. Things will go wrong, because they have gone wrong in the past. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I don’t know when I’ll get the courage, if ever, to step into a store and look at stuff for this baby. I don’t know if I’ll ever let myself truly enjoy every minute of this.

The fact is that I am not normal. My body is not normal. I am, as I’ve said before, broken until proven otherwise.

Each day that passes I love Him more and more. And with each day the terror increases exponentially. The thought of possibly losing Him is terrifying.

So I’m on hold until further notice. Probably 21-ish more weeks. I wish I had a fast forward button.

Hope all of you guys have a great weekend. Don’t have a bump pic today, but I have something even better – a bunny!!!!

Now back to the post at hand.

*Warning: Pregnancy complaints ahead, please feel free to skip if you’re not in a good place right now.

Going on week three of bed rest, and today was just lovely – cramping, spotting, and to top it all off a killer sinus headache. I have become a zombie holed up in a blanket fort. I’m not liking this one bit.

I spend almost all day every day worrying. Most couples would be shopping for strollers, or at least feeling confident enough to go to a maternity store by now. Something.

Not me. I’m stuck in bed in an anti social haze.

And I’ve realized something. There have been a few BFPs in the blogosphere this week, and when usually these announcements either had me slightly jealous or absolutely ecstatic, I now find myself feeling SORRY for them. I just think, “oh crap, they’ve got a hard nine months ahead, poor things.”

Guys, I’m sorry – but I hate being pregnant. I despise it. Every day I’m either on bed rest, feeling sick, or just worried that something will go terribly wrong.

Pregnancy is not unicorns and rainbows, it’s a means to an end. And right now the only thing keeping me relatively sane is trying to visualize our little baby boy.

But that also makes me attached, and worried. And therefore even more miserable.

That’s why I’ve barely been blogging. All I can wrap my head around is just how freaking miserable this whole situation is.

Go ahead, curse me and hate me for saying it. It’s ok, I already pretty much hate myself for feeling it.

Urgh. (Hopefully) 22 weeks to go. (Please please please stay in there shmaby boy).

Here’s a list of reasons why (I love lists!):

1. This pregnancy has been filled with nothing but worry and drama. Shmerson and I both feel the need to do at least one “normal” thing and actually get to celebrate this a little.
2. Looking at it from the other side, though I hated finding out about pregnancies through Facebook, I preferred to get the info as an official announcement, and not as a series of indecipherable comments on a person’s wall or getting slapped in the face by a baby bump photo. Shmerson and I will be attending several weddings in the next few months, so it will be inevitable that I get tagged with a bump. I’d rather reveal on my terms.
3. I think that if I share the news sensitively enough, it may not hurt the closet IFers on my friends list.

So that’s the kicker. I need to find a kind way to say it, without an overshare (because really, my grad school screenwriting professor doesn’t need to know about my three miscarriages), but with a hint toward our struggle so that any closet IFer would understand.

I admit, I’ve been thinking about this for months, and of course, dear readers, I need your help! Here are the status update options I’ve come up with:

(yay! Another list!)

1. It’s been a bumpy two year ride to get here, but I am happy and grateful to announce that we are expecting a baby boy this June. There’s a rocky road still ahead, so please keep us in your thoughts while we fight to make it there safely!
2. I am grateful and humbled to announce that after a lot of heartache, we are expecting a baby boy to make his arrival in June of this year. My thoughts are with all of the couples still struggling with infertility and pregnancy loss, and I hope all of your wishes come true soon.
3. This is the humorous approach: I embed “pregnant women are smug” and write: I promise, I’m not like that. Grateful for the upcoming arrival of our baby boy, due this June.

I know the first two are ultra-sensitive, but they still somewhat feel like TMI. But maybe I’m wrong? Is the third option good? Should I just scrap it all and write in all caps (as has been suggested here several times in the comments, originate by MissOhkay) “I’M KNOCKED UP! SEE YA LATER, BARREN BITCHES!” or something? Do you have any better ideas? I’m sure you do, so lay them on me.

Help!