Luck runs out.

I haven't left my house since learning of my friend's baby. I'm still here, in pajamas at lunchtime, debating whether or not I'm going to venture to the grocery store this afternoon. I have an appointment at the gym at 6:00 p.m.; I had signed up for a "Women on Weights" class a couple of weeks ago when I was feeling good. I guess I'll still go, maybe there's a punching bag I can take some frustration out on.

The baby was big. 8 lbs 5 oz. She only gained maybe 15 lbs her entire pregnancy. Me, um, more like 40. And I was only pregnant for 6 months. That's what bedrest and no morning sickness will do to you, I guess. I'm still struggling, and really struggling, with about 20 lbs. Hence the gym. And a lean protein, high veggie diet that is supposed to help my blood pressure. I can't bring myself to buy new clothes in a larger size, but I'm soon going to have to. I'm still wearing some of my maternity clothes, plus one pair of pants I bought for a job interview, and my gym clothes. Not exactly a winner's wardrobe.

Which is fitting, because I feel like such a failure.

I've always had a pretty easy road in life. I come from a good family, the youngest of three girls, and by anyone's definition I was spoiled. I don't think I was a bratty spoiled child, but I didn't lack for much, didn't have many daily chores, and led a charmed existence. My sisters are 9 years and 12 years older than me, so I grew up with 3 moms. I guess I had the best of both worlds- both being an pseudo-only child when they were grown and gone, but still with siblings to call on when I needed them.

I was always a good student. I worked extremely hard in university, loved every minute of it, and always seemed to make the right grades, get the right scholarship, make the right choices, meet the right boy. It was always so perfect. I got pregnant without trying too hard, prided myself on no morning sickness, figured I would sail through the pregnancy like I had sailed through so many things before. I never ever thought I would be one of those women, women who have trouble having babies. I figured I would be the textbook easy pregnancy, resulting in a perfect, gorgeous baby at the end of it. I was so happy. I remember thinking, many many times, while walking down our street or driving in my little car, that in this world at this time, I was exactly where I wanted to be; there was nowhere else or any other circumstance that was better than what I had.

Well, we all know what happened then.

So here I am, trying to deal with a loss so great that it cripples even the strongest women. And I've never really dealt with much loss at all before this, let alone something this debilitating. I've changed infinitely, my core values are shaken beyond recognition. I don't know who I am anymore. But I'm here.

I failed. I failed at bringing my sweet girl to a viable gestation. My body reacted so strongly against something I wanted so badly. I had no control, but I failed. I don't feel guilty, I know I did everything I could do to preserve the pregnancy, I know I made the best choices I could make at the time, but I am so angry that after all the golden moments and years, I failed. And I couldn't stop it.

So now I'm trying to find peace with this, and eventually be able to rejoin my circle of friends and watch the mommies and babies cuddle and laugh, and not hate them. I would give everything I owned to have my happiness back. I would sign over my house and car and all of it for another chance to feel like I had the best life in the world. Now I have this life, with pessimism and heartache and sometimes hope, and I have to live it.

Because it's mine, and it's all I've got right now.