The Dreaded Waiting Room.

One of my least desired places to be.



The doctors waiting room.



I had been off work for eight weeks with post-traumatic stress which resulted in anxiety and depression, something I thought I could never pull myself out of. Today, I recognised a huge accomplishment as I went back to work, just for two hours but two hours that I was proud of.



I visited the doctor this afternoon. It is part of my ongoing process to ensure that my mental health is in the best place it can be, I received yet another note that described my condition and explained that I was well enough to return with gradual steps and reduced hours.



I sat, staring at the woman who knows more about me than some of those closest to me. The one who has seen me shed countless tears. The one who genuinely cares and asks how I am. The one who wants the best for me. The screen is turned somewhat and I see fragments of my medical history.



Recurrent eye infections, antibiotics were given and then the words that made me sick to my stomach... patient pregnant. Realising that once again, at that moment I am not. I am still not. I long to go back to the day of telling my doctor I am expecting and the excitement of being referred to the midwife.



A little further down the page, I see 'Significant Issues' and listed underneath 'Late miscarriage'. I know why I am sat in that hard, plastic chair. I know that I no longer have my baby inside of me. I know that I should now be 38 weeks pregnant and waiting to meet my little boy at any minute. Yet I sit there, exasperated knowing that now my body just doesn't seem to respond to even getting pregnant any more.



Just moments before entering the room, a lady sat next to me in a deserted waiting room. Baby boy strapped to her chest and a dainty car seat connected to a pram. The baby cries and my motherhood instincts go into overdrive. You see, my body still thinks I should have a baby. It isn't only emotional reactions, but physical ones too.



I am sat on my sofa, tears rolling down my cheeks and I am reminded once again, just like I was in that waiting room that my joy is not placed in this journey. I am reminded that I do not know the route of that precious boy in her arms. I am reminded that my story isn't over yet, and neither is yours.



I can see light streaming in, tiny rays that glow through the cracks of my brokenness and false smiles.



I don't know where you are today and I don't know what you are feeling but I do know that you can still find delight on your journey. Please don't feel like you cannot mourn or feel your loss when you see others with what you so badly want. You are more than entitled to, just try not to live there.



Today, this post is just as much to me as to anyone else.

So next time you're sat in that waiting room and memories come flooding back to you, or you're sat around perfect bumps and newborn babies, know that you are not alone in this journey.



Comparison is the thief of joy.


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