I don't want to be pregnant again. But I'm dying to be pregnant again.

I’m terrified of not being able to get pregnant again.

I’m even more terrified of getting pregnant again.

Back in October, I found out I was pregnant. Right before Thanksgiving, we lost the baby.

It was horrible. It was traumatic. I’m still not over it. It was so early - I would have been only 10 or 11 weeks when we found our baby was already long gone - but it was painful and horrific. How much worse would it be to lose a baby further along?

I can’t imagine putting myself through that again. How could I stand it?

Every day that I was pregnant, I was scared. Even when I was happy and excited, and couldn’t wait for that first ultrasound, I was constantly worried. What if something goes wrong? What if I miscarry? Was that a cramp? Wait, did I just start bleeding? I was positively paranoid.

If I can get pregnant again, it will inevitably be worse. We’ll keep it a secret. Anxiety will be at an all-time high. Every twinge, every trip to the bathroom will cause heart palpitations. The fear before the first ultrasound will be overwhelming, because I’ll remember the last time I went in for a first ultrasound and how horribly wrong it went.

I can’t imagine actually enjoying pregnancy. That was stolen away from me. I spent the month and a half I knew I was pregnant sipping decaf coffee, sitting on my porch swing reading the best pregnancy books; I created baby registries and told friends and planned showers and read about birth plans and made Pinterest boards.

I was soaring on the ecstasy of imminent motherhood; oblivious to the looming disaster, totally unaware I was about to come crashing down to the wreckage of miscarriage. I won’t dare allow myself such joy if I get pregnant again.

On the other hand, what if I can’t get pregnant again?

The doctor told me I have a heart-shaped uterus. She couldn’t tell if it’s bicornuate or arcuate. Maybe I’m not destined for motherhood. Maybe I’ll never give birth.

Maybe we shouldn’t even try. What if I get pregnant but every time it’s another disappointment, another heartbreak, another loss?

What if my body can’t sustain life, can’t do what it’s biologically supposed to do? What if my womb is barren and I am bound to a future of faking smiles at friends’ baby showers and politely declining invitations to their kids’ birthday parties?

My eyes well up with tears as the years flash before my eyes, childless; outwardly happy but empty inside. Watching my coworkers’ kids grow up, graduate, move away; hearing the stories of these kids but having none of my own to tell. Sipping wine with my friends, everyone swapping their best mom-hacks, but having nothing to contribute. Living a full life, but always missing something. Feeling the excruciating loneliness of being left behind, excluded from a circle I’ve always longed to be a part of.

I don’t want to be pregnant again. But I’m dying to be pregnant again.

Either path sounds frightening.