Which means, we might be trying, we might not. I simply refuse to decide either way. Honestly, the urge comes and goes, along with my feelings about booking an appointment to explore next steps with our new doctor in a few weeks. I’m not sure how I’m going to feel about what he’s going to say or recommend at this stage of attempting to become first-time parents. It might be so grim it makes us laugh. It might be so optimistic it makes me even more indifferent. I really have no idea, and, for the time being, I’m not beating myself up about it. What I've learned through all of this, and reading about other women’s grief and struggles through miscarriage after miscarriage, is that we have to eventually give ourselves permission to say “Fuck it” when we need to. To put the weight of all the shame and loss and crushing disappointment aside, even for just a while, to remember what it feels like to be free. Otherwise, what is the alternative? I don’t want to look ahead to another five years of wondering and waiting and mourning a life I’m not entirely sure I’m supposed to have anyway. And so... I’m not going to.