I return to Mama's Log after a hiatus of 9 months. An appropriate length of time given what's happened. This post should explain the silence, the hesitance to write publicly, and my renewed inspiration...
Written August 18, 2012
I awake with a start, bolting up, then fall back onto my pillows as relief floods over me.
It was a dream. A nightmare. There was blood where there should be none. And the me in the dream had to accept what the blood meant – again.
I’m 10 weeks pregnant today. And I was 10 weeks pregnant last Boxing Day. I remember receiving a notification on my iPhone telling me so, telling me about little baby fingernails appearing on the fetus within me. But by New Year’s Eve, I was spotting, and a week later, all traces of the pregnancy were gone.
I got that same notification again yesterday. And between that, and the crampy bloated feeling that overwhelmed me last night after dinner, it’s no surprise that I’m on edge and that my subconscious is playing out the worst-case scenario in my dreams.
Two more weeks and I’m home free - at least I hope so. Two more weeks and I will see a blurred fetus on the screen during the ultrasound. Two more weeks and the risk of miscarriage goes down substantially, according to statistics anyways. Will I be able to breath then?
In the meantime, I revel in the morning sickness that comes in waves all day, keeping me from eating, making me add lemons to anything I drink, then leaving me ravenous in its wake. I devour a jar of pickles, a bagel with cream cheese, two pieces of cheese pizza – nothing with much nutritional value – then kick myself with the resulting bloatedness. I sit in front of the air conditioner, staring at a spot on the ceiling for minutes on end, my normal rapid-paced brain on hold it seems. I already look and feel six months pregnant, donning my "fat pants" and flowy shirts. I melt in the heat, fall asleep during commercials, and wake in the night constantly to pee.
But I revel in all of it and I wouldn't have it any other way. Because it means this pregnancy is happening.
“How are you feeling these days?” my midwife asks.
“Crappy,” I say.
“I hate to tell you that’s great!” she says.
Of course, Lucas has been on board since day one. In fact, he knew before I did, poking at my belly, “Mommy, there’s a baby in there.”
I laughed, “no, honey, it’s just fat.” But it made me realize I was actually a day late. I was shocked to get the plus sign on the pregnancy test, and when I showed Lucas, he just shrugged and said, “I told you!”
Last weekend,I regret that I lost my temper on him unnecessarily. He was smushing his face against my arm, and I snapped, “I hate it when you lick my arm!” Can I blame my outburst on the hormones and the heat?
He curled up into a ball beside me and when I realized I’d hurt him, I begged him to talk. He finally shared, “When you say you "hate", it feels like you are saying you hate me.”
Guilt and tears rising, I reassured him with hugs and words that there was nothing farther from the truth.
Then he continued. “When you say words like hate, the baby might hear you and then it might go away again.”
My heart broke in half as it was the first time he had expressed his hurt over the miscarriage. Eight months after it all happened, he was finally sharing his own remorse. Back then, he had been very accepting of my explanation that the baby wasn’t ready to come and had to let go. I had placated him with a chocolate covered marshmallow which probably helped soften the blow. But all the time Hubby and I were sad over it, he continued playing beside without a word. But obviously it had an impact, and in a way, he’s holding his breath too.
Now he asks me every day,“Has it been 200 days yet?” I can’t bear to tell him it’s still 211 days til our due date. Some would advise that you shouldn't tell your other children until after 12 weeks, but I can't imagine keeping this from him. I can't imagine that I could do this without him.
So, I take his advice, and think nice thoughts, and try and avoid negative words. I tell this baby in words and in song how much we can’t wait for him or her. “We’re going to have a blast,” I say to my belly regularly. Part of me feels like I'm trying to persuade him to stick around, doing my little promos on how great this physical experience will be.
"It will be so fun, Little One, when you come. Your brother will kiss you, your father will sing to you, and I will nourish you. And the hole that we have felt in our family since the miscarriage will be filled. We will be complete.
Just hang in there."