The last two days, I’ve barely moved.
I’ve been sitting in the same spot, just… waiting.
Waiting for my next ultrasound. Waiting for Wednesday. Waiting for the D&C. Waiting for answers, for clarity, for my body to catch up with what my mind is still trying to process.
It’s a strange place to be—this kind of limbo. Not moving forward, not going back. Just paused.
Today, I had a moment of panic. I started calling to figure out the details for the procedure—where to go, what time, what to expect. And I kept getting redirected. Over and over. Different departments, different extensions, no real answers. You know that feeling when your chest tightens and you just need one clear person to help you? That was me.
And then, finally, I got through to the right place.The man on the phone was… surprisingly kind. Patient. Warm. He took the time to explain everything clearly, didn’t rush me, didn’t make me feel like I was a burden. And I caught myself off guard for even noticing it that much. Maybe because lately, you hear so many complaints about people being cold, disconnected, especially in systems like healthcare. I didn’t expect to feel comforted by a simple phone call—but I did.It made me think.
Because my experience lately—especially in emergency settings—has felt like the complete opposite.In the last six months, I’ve been to urgent care twice. I brought my youngest to the emergency room when she had a febrile seizure. And now, this whole situation. And every time, I notice the same thing: the intake staff often feel… cold. Distant. Impatient. Like there’s no space for emotion, even when you’re clearly going through something overwhelming.
I get it, to a point. They see a lot. They deal with stress constantly. But still… the lack of compassion can feel shocking when you’re the one on the other side of the desk, vulnerable and scared.
It stays with you.
Anyway—just something that’s been on my mind.
On top of everything, I’m starting to feel stressed about work. I’ve been calling in sick for the past few days, and honestly, I don’t see myself going back until I actually feel okay again—physically and mentally. But there’s still that pressure in the background… the unknown of what happens next.
And then there’s recovery.
I don’t really know what to expect. I find myself thinking ahead—about healing, about my body, about what it will take to feel normal again. About trying again someday. About rest, and whether I’ll even allow myself to fully take it.
It all feels like an uphill climb right now.
But the truth is, I’m not there yet.Right now, I’m just here. Sitting. Waiting. Processing. Existing in a space that doesn’t have a clear ending yet.
There’s no clean conclusion to this, because I’m still in it.
And maybe that’s the point.
I’ve been living on this couch for days now.
Reclaiming MomBod 