And then there were three.

An extended medical leave. That's the official label for my sudden hiatus from work. Everything happened in a flash. It was Monday morning, I was all set for a full day ahead. So much so that I decided to give my office desk a good overhaul. Too much, too messy. I had finished organizing all the publications according to the months and years when something didn't feel right. 

And then everything was a blur from then. The bleeding. The panic. The tearful ride home. The wait in the doctor's office. The bed rest. The second visit. The worst fear. The news. The end. 

Everything else in between is just white noise. The minute the doctor pursed his lips and the silence that cloaked the room...I just knew. And I was so calm, I creeped myself out. This doctor had seen me here, in the same condition twice before, both times bawling my eyes out. But not this time. I nodded. Waved it off with a "oh it's alright. I knew something was wrong. Well, thanks for everything." He was kind. He gave us options and talked about tests, while I sat there nodding, smiling perhaps but hardly listening. I took five steps to the waiting room before the facade came tumbling down in the form of big, fat, salty tears. The H was swift and after dealing with the nurse, we left so we could grieve in private.

The H had to leave for a family trip the next day and I knew it pained him to leave me at a time like this. But I wanted him to leave with a peace of mind and insisted that I was okay. "Not my first rodeo," I could even joke. In the past few days since he's been gone, I knew that I had a choice: Wallow in my grief and rot in bed, hating God and the world OR have a cry, take a long shower and continue with the daily grind of life. While I am in no physical condition to return to the office, I took the initiative to have work sent to me. On days when I can will myself to walk around the house, I do. And I play with my dogs, do the dishes, sort the laundry and continue with my writing. I cook dinner, watch a DVD and read a good book and before you know it, it's bed time.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Today is probably the hardest day. I opted for a natural miscarriage over a D&C procedure, which means I would not know when exactly my body would expel the baby. I thought I had finally come to terms with it but it didn't really hit me till I rolled out of bed this morning, bleeding and doubled over with cramps. And I woke up alone. I allowed myself five minutes of sobbing and wishing the H was here before I told myself to snap out of it. I prepared breakfast, cleared out the dog poo in my front yard (it's a bitch but it has to be done), popped painkillers, took a shower and submitted to the sofa for the rest of the afternoon, keeping note of the bleeding in case it gets worse.

I was miscarrying for the third time but I would not let it break me. Everyday someone loses a pregnancy. Perhaps even for the 5th, 6th or 10th time. And they keep going. Why couldn't I? Yes, we want children. But I realise I can't let that define me. To an extent, this is beyond my control. What I have definite control over is how I want to continue with my life, day to day.

I read that God isn't cruel and He has his reasons. We must experience loss so we have compassion, so we don't become monsters of self-regard. So we become less prideful and become better people. Perhaps this is my lesson in humility. Maybe even karma in some twisted way.

While I mourn another loss in my search for a baby, I draw strength from my three butterflies. While God has taken them away from me, in return He has given me the strength in tenfolds to become a more resilient human being. After all, it  never gets easier. I just get better.