Improbable words.

Today began with a check of my hCG levels (descending properly, if I’m reading the lack of follow-up call correctly). It was still dark outside when I walked into the maternity ward of the hospital, grimacing against the dread of encountering hordes of happily big-bellied expectant mothers or, worse, new parents tenderly cradling their bouncing bundles of joy. “And what are we here for this morning?” asked the nurse, brightly.

I explained. “J’ai fait une fausse couche – I had a miscarriage,” I added, and then stopped. It was the first time I had spoken those words and I still couldn’t – still can’t – believe that I have to.

From the moment I first saw those two little lines to the defeat of finding out that they were for naught, I had been so happy, unable to stop breaking into a full smile every time I whispered the improbable words to myself: I’m pregnant.

Before I had the chance to repeat them enough to be convinced of their trueness, they were gone, replaced by those of this morning. And as unbelievable as were the former, I still can’t wrap my heart around the truth of the latter.

It’s gone. It’s over.