Almost any man I know will tell you baseball is a metaphor for life, but I have never found that “three strikes, you’re out” applies to many aspects of my life. Good thing too, because if it did I would be cutting it close and running out of pitches.

Our second miscarriage this past month was a bit easier on us mentally, because we hadn’t let ourselves fully accept that we were pregnant in case we were let down again. Sounds pessimistic, but it was a defense mechanism. That isn’t to say it was easy, but it wasn’t as much of a shock. It was a lot harder physically because it was a natural miscarriage, whereas my last was a “missed miscarriage” (meaning that my body didn’t know it had miscaried and  surgery was needed, which was actually painless and easy to recover from). Everyone says that a natural miscarriage is better for your body, but I dare them to tell that to me when I am lying in bed groaning with contractions or throwing up from a mix of pain and pain-killers. I may rip out a heart or two. Natural-smatural, I’d like my anethesia now, please.

Aparently, two miscarriages for different reasons and with different mechanisms is not uncommon, and even my doctor had three before her beautiuful child was born. I am just assuming her child is beautiful, to her anyways. I don’t stalk her or anything. So the tests are on hold until we see how my body handles a third pregnancy.  If we hit three strikes we go for tests but we won’t be out at the plate yet, thankfully. Even three miscarriages before happy babies is more common than you would think and if the tests do highlight a problem our modern medicines can cure a multitude of pregnancy issues once they know what is wrong. 

But, baby or not, I still have Adam, and we are still a family even if it is just us two for eternity. But we’re not giving up yet, and we’re gonna go down swinging.