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Dear God,

I am angry at you right now.

Two weeks ago today, I was supposed to be getting an email which would assure me that BWB and I would be settled in this little house, in this little city, for the next four years. Two weeks ago Friday, I was supposed to get the email confirming that assurance. Neither of those came.

Instead, I received an email which turned everything on its head, again, and found myself scrambling to re-make a plan, again, and trying to figure out how I am going to make everything okay, again.

God, I am really, really tired of scrambling. I am really tired of thinking things are going to work out, and then having them not. I am really tired of being thrown curve balls. I am really tired of having to be strong, of having to be flexible, of having to be creative, and of having to roll with the punches. I’m tired of getting through it, of making the best of it, and of trusting that things are going to work out.

I want things to work out for more than a few months. I want some certainty about where I am going to be living and what I am going to be doing for more than a year at a time. I want to know that my husband will be able to have his job and career undisturbed by the insanity of my luck. I want not to have to leave the friends we have made here, and the hospital we have grown familiar with.

I want not to feel like my dream of being an obstetrician is crumbling in front of my eyes.

But I don’t get any of that right now.

Don’t get me wrong, God. I am really grateful for the amazing man you have given me. It is not every woman who is lucky enough to have her husband’s response to a bombshell like this be, “Well gee, I guess I might end up staying home with the baby for a year or so, huh?” His unconditional support and steadfast determination that we will stay together geographically as a family in the coming year, no matter what that means in terms of his contract and career plans, is unbelievable. I’m also incredibly grateful for the tiny little person currently doing yoga inside my belly. He is a miracle, without question, and I can’t wait to meet him and get to know who this little boy is that you have sent us.

I also recognize, grudgingly, that the church I found myself sitting in last week, with the priest and the parishioners who said exactly the right things, gave just the right number of hugs, and embraced me as if I had been attending services there for decades, that may have had your handiwork all over it.

But still. I’m angry. And I’m sad. And I’m confused, because I thought I saw where you were taking us, God.

I’m more calm about it than I was two weeks ago, and I’m sure in another two weeks I’ll be better than I am now. A year or two from now, I’ll see what it was that you were working on and understand a little better why you had to throw us off again. I just hate that I have to go through this again, the confusion and the doubt and the anger and the grieving. I’m tired of grieving.

I’m really angry at you right now, God. Really angry.

Love,
WHG

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I haven’t posted in a long time.

It’s not because I didn’t have things to write about. Oh boy, do I have things to write about.

It’s not because I didn’t have time, although that does play a huge role.

It’s because I didn’t post about something very big that happened in September, and posting about anything else before I posted about that thing seemed very strange. Except when I went to write about the thing that happened in September, it seemed awkward to have not written about it yet, so then I didn’t.

It occurred to me recently that if I was going to be able to use this blog again, ever, I was going to have to just write and be done with it. So here I am, writing.

This thing that happened in September, it happened right after my last post. It happened just about 30 weeks ago. It happened when a chemical reaction occurred on a small piece of paper and popped up with two little lines.

BWB and I are expecting our son to make his debut at the end of May.

I wish I had been able to make that post in September that I tried to write, to explain the rush of emotions. I wish that I had managed to get that one out so that I could have told you about my fear of losing the pregnancy, of knowing too much because of my medical degree, of going to the first and second (and third, and fourth…) ultrasounds having steeled myself for hearing that there was no heartbeat. I wish I had gotten my act together to write a first trimester “stuff I learned” back when I remembered all of the stuff I learned and before I forgot all of it. I really wish I had been coherent enough to express my utter shock when I found out that I was not, in fact, having the girl I just knew I was expecting.

Some of these things, I can try to write retrospectively, and I will. However, I think the important thing here is that I made this post and I can start writing again without quite so much consternation. We’re three quarters of the way through the pregnancy, but barely just beginning the journey.

Of course, he likes to chime in when I’m at the computer, kicking me to convey his opinion of what I’m working on. My tiny editor will probably enforce brevity to some extent, but then I’m pretty sure that’s what a good editor does. He’s so clever. Already.

I’m so smitten. Already.

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