It wasn't my fault. I know that much. Vials and vials of blood. Tests run on me and on him. But the only answer we're left with is... no one really knows why. Women have gone through their whole pregnancies doing drugs and drinking alcohol and smoking and taking multiple sex partners. And they have given birth to healthy babies. Maybe small babies. Maybe addicted babies. But whole, full-term babies who will one day outlive the abuse of living in a mother who didn't care about being pregnant. But here I am, relatively healthy, never tried a single drug, never smoked anything, gave up drinking when my mother-in-law died months before getting pregnant, but never really was much of a drinker to begin with. And my baby is gone. For no real tangible reason.
It makes me mad. But it also gives me some peace. I can try to blame myself for drinking caffeine occasionally... taking a single ibuprofen for a raging headache... blame my BMI, perhaps, but I can't hold on to any of those for very long because a thousand other things tell me my baby should have been healthy. I didn't do anything wrong. I just had bad luck. Bad timing. Bad something that I will never know for sure.
I find myself turning angry anyway. Angry with myself. My husband. My 3 children. I just want to be peaceful. I want to feel normal. I want to turn my brain off. Why does it burn eternally with a never ending narration? I fall asleep to it and wake up to it. It's negative and repetitive and noisy and obnoxious and it never shuts up.
