Hope

It's been a while since I've written, and as far as I know, things have been good on the baby business. I'm kind of crossing my fingers with this month. It's been all of August, and part of July and I'm kind of holding my breath. I guess we will see in a couple more weeks if anything is brewing or not.
There seems to be a lot of miscarriage talk lately, through TV, things on facebook, and people talking. It's almost weird. There was an episode of The Big C on tonight, and one of the main characters lost her baby in a later miscarriage (I'm guessing around 20ish weeks) and threw a funeral for her baby. The main character gave a great eulogy, about how even though the baby was lost early, too soon gone, it gave her parents a brief time where they were happier than any other time in their lives. It really hit me that yes, those 10 weeks (4 weeks if you measure from when I found out to the loss) I was pregnant the second time and the one week I was pregnant the first time were the happiest moments of my life, besides obvious ones like meeting/marrying Ken and the like.
Also today there was a post through The Compassionate Friends website about miscarriage, which I loved. Here is the article:

August 19, 2011
Ken Harbaugh is a former Navy pilot and an NPR commentator.
It has been three months since the miscarriage. We weren't far along, still in the first trimester, so only our closest friends knew we were expecting.
Annmarie, my wife, is fine. At least, her body is fine. There is something broken in both of us, though.
My wife and I have every reason to be grateful. The miscarriage happened early on. Annmarie was never in danger. We have two beautiful girls already. If we want, we can still have more. But the whole experience left us wondering how one deals with a tragedy that happens quietly at home.
A few weeks before we lost the baby, my wife's grandfather died. His funeral, like any other, was solemn. But also beautiful. Everyone came — all 10 kids, from across the country. Distant relatives, co-workers, people from church stopped by to pay their respects. They mourned alongside the family. We buried Grandpa Kel that afternoon, and woke the next morning with the memory of a beautiful send-off.
There is a reason that such ceremonies exist. Who knows if it meant anything to Grandpa, lying in his coffin, but it meant a lot to everyone else. I gave him my gold Navy wings, pinned to an American flag laid on his chest. He was the only other Navy pilot in the family, and I felt the need to solemnize that connection. Others said goodbye in their own way. Some talked to him, some knelt for a while by his side. Most important, we all said farewell together.
A miscarriage is tragic enough by itself. What makes it worse is the fact that no social custom has evolved to help us through the loss. There is no ceremony, no coming together, no ritualized support. Annmarie and I suffered alone, in silence. Most of our friends had no idea we were grieving. It took me two weeks to tell my own mom.
And it's not as if life stopped, or even slowed down to allow us a moment to reflect. We had jobs to get to, kids to take care of. Real sadness seemed an indulgence we could not afford.
In the months since, I have learned something about this kind of grief. It is not a luxury, but an essential part of healing. So this weekend, after the kids are in bed, Annmarie and I will do something that may seem a little crazy. We will head into the garden with a bulb we've been saving. We will bury it, say a few words, and hold each other. We will finally have our ceremony.
I suspect that watching the first green shoot push up through the earth will hurt. Every time we see it, we will be reminded of what happened to us. But that's alright. Grief cannot be buried forever. With enough time, and a little sunlight, it might just transform itself into something that aches a little less.

I kind of want to do something like that now, maybe not a tree, but some pretty flowering plant or a special candle or something of significance. I'm still thinking of exactly what it should be, but something. I think I need something like that to help.
So I guess now it's a waiting game to see what will happen, a period or two pink lines. I still have a pregnancy test under the sink in my bathroom, and I'm hoping I won't have to buy more, that thise last one will be it. Please be it.