I have a doctor appointment, have to get checked to make sure everything’s ok physically. The waiting room of course is filled with pregnant women, newborn babies, and I’m especially happy I remembered my sunglasses. I put them on, and turn my face in the direction of my book, pretending to read. My oversize sunglasses catch the tears so no one sees them. My name is called, and when I’m in the exam room I can wipe them away.
The nurses and doctor are “very sorry for my loss”. Yeah, me too. I have to go through the whole scenario, tell them exactly what happened. Somehow I get through the story with only a few sobs. Physically, I get checked and everything’s fine. I get a prescription for birth control, which will help get my body back in shape quicker. Scott and I have a plan to buy a house before we try again, or adopt, or whatever. Rationally, I’m sure this is the right course of action, the mature way to go about having a baby. Emotionally, I want to toss the birth control in the trash and get pregnant as soon as possible.
I need to get a job. This recession is hell on the arts – interior design firms are laying off people; no one is hiring. I’m looking everywhere I can, freelance, construction, anything. In the meantime, I’m redesigning my father-in-law’s house for free, just to stay in the game, and have something to put in my portfolio. All I can think is, the sooner I get a job, the more money we can save, the sooner we can buy a house, the sooner I can get pregnant again. It’s all the motivation I need to find a job. I’m working my ass off for a baby that isn’t even close to existing yet. My whole life revolves around this someday-baby.
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