The other day, I went to the dentist to have a tooth ripped out of my skull while simultaneously wondering whether I was pregnant, miscarrying, or having an ectopic pregnancy.
Spoiler alert: I’m miscarrying.
Because apparently my body and the universe have a joint loyalty program, and every fucking purchase comes with complimentary trauma.
Eight years of infertility. Four losses. No living children. Two failed embryo transfers. And now another pregnancy I desperately wanted but was too terrified to believe in.
Because I had to be treated as pregnant, I could only have lidocaine. What nobody mentioned was that infected tissue can be notoriously difficult to numb.
So I felt. Fucking. Everything.
I’m sobbing while they’re wrenching a piece of my skull out of my face, and the doctor says, “This is why I always recommend being put out for this kind of removal.”
Oh, fantastic. Would’ve been useful information BEFORE THE MEDIEVAL TORTURE BEGAN.
At this point, I’ve survived enough physical and psychological torment to qualify for a documentary. Here we observe the infertile woman in her natural habitat: exhausted, traumatized, and once again being hunted for sport by the universe.
Then I notice the assistant is pregnant. They literally have “FIRST TRIMESTER” written on the whiteboard. I guess for me. I was tempted to add a question mark to the end of it.
While I’m actively sobbing, she tries to distract me by telling me labor will be worse, asking when I’m due, if I’m doing a gender reveal, and what gender I want.
Ma’am.
I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF THIS BABY IS GOING TO FUCKING LIVE.
And now I know.
I’m miscarrying.
Again.
There’s a special kind of hell reserved for people who spend years trying to become parents. You learn to fear hope, grieve pregnancies nobody knew existed, and keep functioning while your world quietly falls apart.
And apparently, you learn to have a tooth extracted while strangers discuss your imaginary baby shower.
I’m tired of being resilient. I never fucking auditioned for this role.
I left the dentist with one less tooth and another pregnancy to grieve.
The tooth had an exit strategy.
Apparently, I’m still waiting for mine from this fucking nightmare.