Most of the time, I’m ok.

But sometimes I’m not.

Sometimes the past four months sneak up behind me, grab my throat, and squeeze.

Wednesday night, I sobbed in my husband’s arms in the dark for an hour. Just sobbed. I couldn’t find words.

Then yesterday I found two posts by Sarcastic Mom that really explained how I felt better than I could, so I had him read them. Afterwards he just held me again. He couldn’t find words, either.

I know it was hard for George to watch me labor with Oliver in so much physical pain, but it has been even harder for him to watch me suffer a miscarriage not once, but twice in four months, while he felt so helpless, unable to ease the pain in my heart.

The one question I asked him was, “Do you think we’ll be able to have another child?”

He looked me straight in the eyes and said without doubt, “Yes. I know we will.”

There is a post I wrote last February, when we were starting to plan ahead for baby #2, which (ironically enough) ends with the line, “it’s just a matter of when.” And oh, how those words sting now. We foolishly assumed that it was only a question of spacing and being “ready” and just GETTING pregnant. We never thought we would end up here, a year later, when it’s no longer just a matter of when but a matter of will I ever be able to make it through a first trimester again?

If having three kids was ever a consideration for us (which it had been, off and on, in the past), THAT is one question which no longer exists. I want one more baby very much, but after that I will do everything in my power to avoid pregnancy. It’s sort of sad, but beyond a second living child, I cannot—CANNOT—handle any more pregnancies tainted with the all-too-real possibility of more miscarriages. I’m just not strong enough.

I’m only ok most of the time because I have to be ok most of the time. Surviving miscarriage does not require one to be strong or brave, nor does it make one stronger or braver. No, it’s quite passive, really: life goes on. The clock ticks and the calendar changes. I have no choice; I am still here. I have a job to go to, a house to clean, meals to cook. I have a husband and a son to love and to lift me up. We move forward together, but I am only as strong or brave as momentum makes me seem.

I talk about needing a vacation and I talk about wanting to lose weight, but deep down, I don’t care whether either of those things happen this year at all. All I really want is another living, breathing child. In the mean time, I pray to be the best mother I can to the amazing child I already have.

Most of the time, I’m ok.

But sometimes it hits me full force again, and when it does, the impact rips me apart.

And then life goes on again.