(I wrote this part several months ago, just for myself and
not intending to share it anywhere.)
My first pregnancy was all excitement, with daily bump
pictures, stuffed animals waiting to be cuddled, and singing lullabies to my
stomach because I knew the baby could hear my voice.
My second pregnancy was all bliss and grapefruit cravings,
followed by the world crashing down around us.
Now, my third pregnancy is all paranoia, with prophylactic low-dose
aspirin, progesterone supplements, protein/glucose urine strips, blood pressure
machines and fetal Dopplers.
There is anxiety. I
can’t relax. I can’t come back from my
loss. I’ve been checking my baby’s heart
beat at home since the 8 week mark and I revel in that sound each time, but as
I lie there, about to touch the Doppler to my ever-rounding stomach, fear
washes over me that this will be the day that I’ll only hear the sound of my
own heart, shattering.
There is guilt. I got
pregnant with this baby before the last baby’s due date and I sometimes
overthink the overlap. I want to honour
my other baby’s memory but also celebrate this baby’s life. I know these are two separate experiences,
but I can’t seem to separate them, so I often find myself stuck in the middle,
unsure how to feel for either baby.
There is the ever-present asterisk
when I talk about my pregnancy:
My second child* is due in
August.
With my last pregnancy** I
was so carefree.
I’m so happy and excited
*** to be having this baby.
* who is actually my third
** by which, I mean the one before
the last
*** and a billion other
conflicting emotions
(written today)
At 24 weeks, I had a 4D ultrasound, and I think that was my
turning point. Seeing my baby beyond the
black and white pixels of a regular ultrasound made it real. Learning that I have an anterior placenta nullified
the utter dread when I don’t feel him moving for a day or longer. Watching Jack react to his little brother on
the screen made my heart swell (and he has been kissing and making farting
noises into my stomach ever since).
I know if my other baby had lived, this one wouldn’t have
existed. That’s a weird feeling to work
around, but after watching him smile, squirm, and play with his umbilical cord,
I know I won’t have a problem bonding with him.
I can’t wait to hold him and count his perfect little fingers and toes,
over and over.
At nearly 29 weeks, I'm learning that maybe it’s ok to grieve and celebrate concurrently; I don’t
have to stop doing one before I can do the other. Maybe motherhood is a fluid experience and
there is no need to compartmentalize because all these feelings are going to sort themselves
out naturally as time goes on.
