Going back.

Today is the day I go to my regular-practice gynecologist for the follow-up on the “small infection, without gravity.” It will be my first time back since the miscarriage-related visits – and assuming all goes well with the aforementioned little issue, it will be the last time. (Take note of the timing: day nine of the two-week wait. Carefully scheduled to prevent me from cheating and asking for an hCG test!)

It suddenly hit me last night that, while there, I might have to bear witness to the cunningly named “Preggo Parade” - which I’m now dreading. The thought of sitting in the waiting room with anybody who will directly remind me of what we lost is turning my stomach.

It’s true that since the last time I saw this doctor, I’ve been to eight or so miscarriage-related medical appointments at the hospital maternity ward. But it was different than going to a regular gyno. Although I saw pregnant women, as well as new mothers carrying their new children, walking in and out, most of my time was spent in the “Urgences” section. Knowing that everyone else there waiting with me also had some type of problem made their bumps a lot easier to bear (not that I would wish those problems on anybody).

Well, almost everyone else. Uhh … pregnant lady in labor? Perhaps you could have chosen to stroll around all anticipative and joyful and glowing despite your pain, cute even in your hospital gown, with your darling husband supporting you at every contraction, in the labor and delivery section, instead of in front of all of us sitting despondently under the “Urgences” sign?