You see me.
A petite woman, cute clothes, and two young kids in tow. My girls are almost perfectly spaced. With little miss still in a infant-seat, it probably seems strange to see me at the OB/GYN getting a blood draw.
Probably another pregnancy. Why else would I be getting blood work at the OB’s office. Gosh — what is she doing getting pregnant so soon? you may wonder.
Perhaps you look at me, and wish I would just be satisfied with the two I appear to have birthed. You might be jealous, and wish you could trade bodies with me … or at least uteri and ovaries. Or maybe you wish I could be supermom, and never ever complain about them not sitting still or not listening.
Perhaps it looks like I have it all. Alive kids. Easy pregnancies. And *look* she’s at it again.
But you would be wrong.
And I look at you. Cute blonde hair. Precious two-year-old son. You look to be in-shape and made of money.
Probably pregnant again, I wonder. It’s probably easy for her to be here. Gosh, I wish it were easy for me to be here.
But then I hear the nurse talk to you about the “situation.” Do you need a nurse consult? she asks you. Yes, you reply. Given the circumstance, I think I would feel better about that.
And so then I know. I was wrong, too. Maybe life isn’t perfect for you either.
It takes some guts (or maybe stupidity), but I finally break the silence. I tell you my real story — or at least the highlights.
I had a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, and two miscarriages. We are in the process of adopting little miss. I hate being here at the OB’s office, but we’re in the thick of testing, so I’m here a lot. I don’t know what you are here for. I hope it is for good news. But if not . . . I understand.
I ramble on, worried that I’m that awkward crazy person that shouldn’t be let out in public.
But then I see it all over your face. Relief, understanding, camaraderie.
You admit you have had two miscarriages, one in your third month. You are pregnant again, but have no idea if this one will “stick.” You wish you could be happy, but you feel numb like you are waiting for the ball to drop.
And there it is. We are both baby-loss mamas. We look like we have it all.
But what we really have is a story.
Just like every one else.