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The Intrusion Of Reality In My Fiction

When we first confirmed this pregnancy I worried that we might have this sort of outcome, after what had happened last time. And because I am a worrier. But I tried to push away any misgivings, and, for the most part, allowed myself to become ridiculously excited by the prospect of new baby smell. Now there are some moments when it hits me like a ton of bricks, that there will be no baby. Well, no baby coming home with us. But for the most part I’m just…numb. The grieving won’t begin, in earnest, until after I head home. Which is going to be a while yet. Yesterday we spent about 19 hours attempting to induce labor, but, because of my previous c-section, I can’t be given the drugs that would really move things along (risk of rupturing my uterus - ran into the same issue last pregnancy) so we’ve opted for a c-section in the morning. I guess it is morning now. For the second night in a row I was given a sedative, but those only seem to last until about 4am. Also before bed, I picked out an outfit for baby Felix, from a supply they keep on hand for stillborn babies. Not exactly the stuff sweet dreams are made of. And earlier in the afternoon I signed an autopsy authorization form and was given a list of crematoriums and funeral homes to contact. But at least I kept myself distracted much of the day by having quality time with some top choice visitors. The husband, the little man, and Zophia. And Buffy. I’m already into season seven of my box set, though, so that’s not going to last me much longer. And then I might just have to deal with the real world again.