Miscarriage 2.0

The second time I miscarried it primarily pissed me off:

Two in a row? Are you fucking kidding me? No way. No. Way. This isn’t happening. Seriously! Again?

I suppose, since I’d been through it once before, I figured I was officially immune:

Yup. That’s right, Universe. Lesson learned. No need for a repeat performance here. Find someone else to educate.

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I’ve been meaning to write about my second and third miscarriages for a very long time. (If you’d care to read about the first, you can do so here.)  I start… and then stop… and then I start and stop some more.  The problem seems to be with finishing; primarily that it never happens.

So, in a bid to practice what I preach – “Done is better than perfect!” – I am going to finally accomplish what I have set out to do.

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This too shall pass.

We were at the cabin, sitting at the table, either chatting or playing a game, when someone noticed them: the bugs.

They were grappling for position, clinging to one another in streams. Piles of them – a writhing, humming mass of silverescent motivation. All of them desperate to make their way through glass or screen; those sight penetrable barriers inexplicably holding them back, preventing them from fully reaching the light.

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I have a confession.

I started another blog. It was called ‘Misconceptions’. It consisted of one post, posted on May 31, 2010:

Mother Fucker. Only a masochist has a miscarriage on Mother’s Day.

That’s right, folks. I wrote the world’s shortest blog. And, yes, that masochist was me. I had a miscarriage on Mother’s day. And a few others before that, but who’s counting?

Not me.

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