“I don’t know why the innocent fall, while the monsters still stand” – Brooke Frasier

It’s my very last appointment at the Feto-Maternity Unit. I’m 29 weeks and 4 days and I’ve graduated. All my appointments from now on will be within the general antenatal unit. My doctor, along with a visiting doctor from Bowral, greet me. New doctor man reads my file and makes small talk as the last ultrasound is conducted. It’s the last time I’ll see the little man in black and white before we meet in person. I’m somewhat sad, but relieved to be saying goodbye to this place. Relieved, as I can finally distance myself from this place that had brought me so much sorrow and anxiety, but saddened that the reassurance I’ve been getting from these world-class professionals is no longer at my service. I guess I’ll just need to trust that everything will be ok.

I’m evidently pregnant now, but there is still no sign of any maternal instinct kicking in. I don’t go gaga over little babies; however, I do find the tiny little clothes somewhat… moving? I’ve filled my time planning. I’m so, so busy planning, planning, planning. I have lists for the lists I’ve written and lists for lists that still need to be written. What I need, what I want… research, research, research… only the best and safest of everything. I’ve got it all covered… from prams to liners… from car seats to cloth nappy snappies. It’s all ready. I’m all ready. All I need now is to hunt and gather!

My first prey: the pram. We’ve been very fortunate to have a lovely family friend give us a Mountain Buggy Swift, which is just amazing! However, I have my eyes on the holy grail of prams, the Emmaljunga Mondial Duo Combi – It. is. serious.- However, I’m not exactly comfortable with paying the hefty price tag of $2200. Challenge accepted. I have morphed into a lioness stalking her prey. I end up locating a barely used Emmaljunga in Berry, which included all the attachments and accessories… perfect condition… for a mere fraction of the price!!! I still have to pinch myself. And when we met the lovely lady, she threw in a whole bassinet of toys! This whole baby paraphernalia hunting is seriously consuming me… and I love it. It’s distracting. It’s numbing. It’s just what I need. Next on the list… pram covers.

 

My fur babies are still the real babies in our family. My dog, Mace, has no suspicion as to what is going on, however, I think Ketut our cat, has caught wift of something. He seems to think that all these new and exciting furnishing in the house are somehow his… and his always got an eye on me. I remember hearing once that cat’s can suffocate newborn babies… I must remember to ‘shoo’ him off the baby gear… wait, I’ll just put that on my list.

I’ve slowly started turning the radio back on. I’m still emotionally unstable with music, but I’m starting to enjoy bopping away again to most songs. Aww, a cute new song about a baby bump by Ed Sheeran. What lovely timing.

 “You are my one and only. You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight. And you’ll be alright… ‘cause you were a small bump unborn for four months then torn from life. Maybe you were needed up there but we’re still unaware as why.”

 You are extremely talented, Ed… but that was cruel… that was very, very cruel.

Music off, get the lists back out. Let’s just drown out these thoughts with a little more busyness.

“You don’t understand what I’m doing now, but someday you will.” -Jesus

“People inspire you, or they drain you- pick them wisely”- Hans F Hansen

I’m still living out of my skin. I wish I could just hide in a cave for the next few months and come back out when life is back to normal. Wait, what is normal?

This week I have my very first 3D ultrasound. It’s the first scan we’ve booked privately with a referral from my GP. My doc tries to explain to me how unnecessary an ultrasound at this stage is, but rather fetal movement count or something along those lines, is a more appropriate indication of health. He’s pretty much telling us to save our money. He could probably tell from my face that I wasn’t interested in any  rational decision on what’s considered necessary or not. I don’t care the cost. Take all my money. It’s irrelevant. I need peace. I need reassurance. Is this what we call desperation? I assume he wrote the referral anyway on the grounds of ‘mental health’ on my behalf… and no, I don’t want it for a pretty 3D profile picture for my Facebook page. Truthfully, even though Little One’s been kicking away, I need to see him to make sure everything is still as it should be. I’ve conjured up every possible fear inside and I need a professional to tell me that it’s all ok.

Wow, these private facilities with their leather lounges and flat screen TVs are definitely a far cry from the public health trimmings. Feature walls and flowers in vases… Yes, vases! And the pens aren’t all tired up to the desk. We’re off to a good start. The lovely doctor reads the referral in front of us and soon realises the nature of the appointment. The whole time she is amazingly accommodating, giving constant commentary on our ‘beautiful baby’ who has a ‘wonderful, strong heart’… and yes… still a boy with his legs remaining in typical male fashion. She clicks the scanner over to 3D mode. I feel a sense of relief when I can see his ears, nose, mouth, fingers, toes… it’s all accounted for. At the same time I’m taken back. I can see him but I don’t know this face. He doesn’t seem familiar. While looking at the pixelated screen, no thoughts of grand admiration come to mind, but a huge sense of relief.

A week later we fly to Queensland for our friend’s wedding. For a moment in time, over this short weekend, I begin to forget how scared I am, and for a second I feel like, maybe, I’m normal again. It’s amazing what good company and the celebration of love can do for the soul. So much so, I finally posted my first ‘tummy’ photo on Facebook. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

A physician once said, “The best medicine for humans is love”. Someone asked, “What if it doesn’t work?” He smiled and said, “Increase the dose.”

What we allow is what will continue.

It’s official. I’ve never, ever, ever been this pregnant before. I keep finding myself uttering it randomly to people in passing. What the heck is wrong with me? I don’t think they want to know your amazingly awkward achievement. Am I getting some type of pleasure out of making people uncomfortable? I seem to have a natural knack of it. Maybe it’s just a bit of a plea. Maybe you can celebrate with me now? Maybe I can now be normal like all the other pregnant ladies? Maybe now we can share stories of pregnancy aches and pains… you know… all the joys I keep hearing about.

The all-day-long sickness has finally passed. It seems I can now stay awake between daylight hours. My tummy is continuing to stretch, and little one has developed an obsession with hiccups. My hair, skin and nails are looking fabulous, however, my UTI battles have continued. Yes, that torturous symptom. Do I need to wee? Am I going to wee my pants? O. M. G. I’ve got to wee! Quick, quick! Oh no… wait… it’s just an invisible fireball of razor blades passing through… never mind! Copious amounts of water along with the little packets of Ural are my staples. Do you know how hard it is to find real cranberry juice?

Besides this minor inconvenience, everything else is on track. I’ve now adjusted my sleeping patterns to sleep on my left side, as apparently it improves blood flow/nutrients to the placenta. Knowing this, I’d feel completely guilty to sleep any other way now. Has anyone mentioned anything about pregnancy guilt?

I’ve had 2 ultrasounds this week. Two very unexpected ones. I woke up in hot sweats and extreme pain during the night. I make my millionth trip to the loo within the hour, when I notice my wee wasn’t the colour it usually was. It’s red. My heart sinks. Stay calm. I consult doctor google while sitting in a warm bath to relieve my pain. Google search: “blood in urine pregnancy 22 weeks” Am I going to die? Are we going to die? I read that it could be nothing serious, but that it also could be. I choose to believe it’s just a pesky infection and brave out the night until I can make a doctors appointment in the morning.

It’s 8am. I haven’t slept. My wee is red. I’m brave. I call the docs; “Sorry, the doctors are completely booked out today.” Hesitation. “May I ask what the concern is?” Well… I’m 22 weeks pregnant and I’ve been peeing blood all night. “Straight to emergency, now!” I hang up the phone, look at hubby and burst out crying. My attempt at being brave has evidently backfired. This can’t be happening. We’re supposed to be driving to Canberra today for a weekend away. Hospitals are too dramatic. Emergency sounds too serious. Maybe I should have gone earlier? We drive in and I’m taken straight through with a catheter inserted in my hand, blood tests, urine samples and my kidneys are scanned. I also get given a sneak peek of little one again. Yep, still a boy. The docs have my thick-manila file sent down from the unit. That overflowing manila folder that haunts me at every appointment.

As the hours pass I actually start to feel better. Tired, but better. My kidneys look fine. No proteins have been detected and I am discharged with a renal ultrasound referral and the diagnoses of ‘Hematuria’; which is simply a fancy word for “blood in urine”. Great… another addition to my manila folder.

We pack our bags and drive to Canberra pretending like nothing has happened. It seems I’ve been walking on egg shells for so long that I’ve forgotten how to stride. I’m not brave. I’m terrified. Every waking moment I am so freaking terrified. I no longer exist. I am just a skeleton of my former self. I’m not a person, I’m a reflection. A hollow shell. What am I even doing here? My pieces just don’t fit together anymore. Please… please tell me more about the joys of pregnancy. Please tell me how wonderful it is experiencing life from the inside out. I want to be normal, like everyone else. A glowing, tummy rubbing, annoying, gloating mother-to-be.

Ok, now. Pity-party over. Get on with it. You’re alive. He’s alive. You now have beautiful photos of your kidneys and it was all for free. Suck it up, princess. Nothing is going to change unless you do.

When we are no longer able to change a situation- we are challenged to change ourselves. –Viktor Franki

“Promise me, you will not spend so much time treading water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly forget, how much you have always loved to swim.” – Tyler Knott Gregson

I know what you look like. I’ve seen you. I’ve held you. I know how real you are. I know you have little nails… fingers and toes that grab and curl. You can recognise my voice. You are perfectly created, but still too fragile to bear this world. Law only now recognises your existence.  Legally you are considered a ‘baby’, no longer “just a foetus”. I am 20 weeks. You are 20 weeks. Over the 20 weeks you’ve made me relive and withstand all the things I have wanted to drown. How much I have desperately wanted to drown. Next week I can officially say I’ve never been this pregnant before. Uncharted territory awaits. It’s you and me, kid. “I’m only 20 weeks”. If only they knew. I imagine holding you in my arms as you flutter in my belly. I know what you look like. I’ve seen you. I’ve held you. I’m going to have to remember how to swim. Maybe, Little One…maybe we can learn together.

 “Sometimes it’s ok if the only thing you did today was breathe”

“Sometimes the best thing that you can do is not think, not wonder, not imagine and not obsess. Just breathe and have faith that everything will work out for the best.”

Everything won’t stop growing. I’ve resorted to all my ‘stretchy’ clothes and have been on the shopping venture to purchase maternity bras. Oh my… that was definitely a venture! It took 4 stores and trying on every possible brand to find one that actually fit properly, and with help from the lovely shop assistant, I have left with a supported bust but an empty wallet. 

The next few weeks are going to be interesting. My morphology scan is scheduled and I know I’m only a few weeks from moving into uncharted territory. The morphology ultrasound is usually the ‘exciting’ scan conducted anywhere between 17-20 weeks. This is usually when couples have the ‘finding out gender’ debate. Time to work out your grand announcement! A reveal cake? “He or she? Open to see!” Or maybe a box filled with blue/pink balloons to release into the wilderness? It is also usually the last time a couple sees their baby on screen before they meet in person. 

I feel sick. Even though we’ve already had a ‘type’ of morphology ultrasound during the early anomaly scan, it still doesn’t feel any easier. Also, we already know we’re having a boy, so the anticipation doesn’t apply this time ’round. Despite all this, I keep finding myself replaying the eager discussion I had with hubby before the morphology scan last time; “A boy or a girl? How exciting! We can finally go shopping!” The predictions, the anticipation, the imagination that escaped us when thinking of who the little he or she would be and what we would do with them. I remember being asked if we were going to find out? Of course we are! I remember being asked if we had a preference. Huh? I’ve made predications, but a preference?

Umm… I’ll take the healthy one, thanks! Yeah, yeah… you’ve heard it a million times before, “I just want a healthy baby, that’s all that matters”. But truthfully now… what are you hoping for? Of course you want the healthy one. No one wishes for anything other than health, do they?… but do you want a boy first to protect his younger siblings? Or a girl first to mother her brothers and sisters to come? Do you want one of each? Or maybe girl, boy, girl, boy? Or maybe 2 boys and 1 girl like your family…?

Huh? No really. It sounds absurd but I’m sure you’ve heard these conversations countless times. We make, well what I thought, were light-hearted predictions, but the whole concept of gender preferences baffled me. People actually proactively trying to achieve a gender with the diets and positions and hopes for either a boy or a girl. The endless advice of doing it this way and eat this at that time. Some even going abroad to dabble in gender selection technologies. Each to their own, I guess. Actually, to be completely honest, I always thought couples that were so eager for a particular gender were just ungrateful.

 It wasn’t until I came across an article one day that brought some insight into this thing called “Gender Disappointment” or “Boy-Girl Blues” that I realised maybe this was actually a real thing and not just pretentious narcissists being precious. As I discreetly tucked my judges wig away, I actually feel extremely blessed to not be a victim of such feelings of resentment or disappointment. The truth is gender preference is actually the rule and not the exception. No amount of mummy shaming can change the fact that it is completely ‘normal’ to feel some form of hope that your offspring will be of a specific gender, which in turn can be followed by disappointment. The clause is, however, that such desires need to be recognised merely as ‘feelings’ and not a reality of true loss. Very deep, doctor man. Like all things, a root cause is always to blame for such disappointments regarding gender, and couples should “work to understand the source of their disappointment”. From what I’ve read, it seems that the first point of blame for such feelings is our wonderful imaginations. We let it run wild, dreaming of birth orders and what will make our family unit complete. Imagining baby boys and girls with brothers and sisters, frilly dresses and rockets ships, dance recitals and soccer matches.

It’s also said that preconceived notions about gender exacerbate disappointments, but who is to blame for that? Well, all of us, I guess. Maybe we all are the root cause for Gender Disappointment? The praise when mothers finally give birth to a boy after having all girls (or vice versa). The sighs of “another one” or “better luck next time” when ones blessed with all daughters or all sons. The comments of “you can stop now” when “lucky” couples have one of each. The pressures people feel to live up to family or personal expectations…

“…to carry the name”,

“…to have a sisters like I did”,

“…to have a relationship like I have with my mum”,

“…so I’ll be looked after in my old age”,

“…to complete our family”

“… to have a mate for life”

The amount of pressure to live up to both these societal and personal expectations is unfair (and this is without even diving into cultural pressures! That’s a thesis in itself). You would think that in this day and age we’d be at a place where we could truly say without any sway of biased hope, I just want a healthy one. Another smart doctor lady said, “The problem is we put too much stress on gender… Once the child is born, you will fall in love with the individual… sex doesn’t matter… because little boys and little girls all have varying attributes”. Amen, sister. We need to stop listening to those comments that “boys are a handful” and “girls are difficult” and imagine the attributes you want to see in your child. Why can’t a daughter go fishing or ride bikes with Dad? Why can’t a son be thoughtful and considerate? In the long run, it would be nice to have everything how we’ve imagined it, but does it really bother you to have a brood of healthy, active children, despite their gender…? Or are we really just being ungrateful? I know for sure, all I want is the healthy, living, breathing one.

As the scan day arrives, everything is the same as last time, however, there is no quiet joy bouncing from the walls this time. There are no quiet feelings of excitement or wonder. There is just a despondent knowing that these next few weeks will either make me or break me. Please have mercy. Please be ok. Please be healthy.

The scan shows everything is well. Bub is still a boy and the doc feels it’s necessary to reprint a photo for proof. I guess this is the only appropriate time to be carrying around a photo of testicles? Get the blue ready, but don’t get it out quite yet. 

“Stop waiting for Friday, for Summer, for someone to fall in love with you, for life. Happiness is achieved when you stop waiting for it and make the most of the moment you are now in.”

*Smart doctor man= Dr. Joshua Coleman, Ph.D.

*Smart doctor lady= Dr. Ruth Wilf, CNM, Ph.D.

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for out journey” – Kenji Miyazawa

My over the top obsession with research has reared is head again, so much so I think I’m ready to write a thesis. Not only has “doctor google” managed to diagnose every little physical niggle with some ‘far out there’ condition, I have also revived my hunt for the best baby product currently available. I’ve already examined and sought the right advice on all my essential baby needs and have compiled a detailed list of my ‘must-haves’. Safety ratings for the top-end car seats, pram functionality and adaptability, along with all the latest safety studies on sleeping arrangements and gear. Never you mind, I haven’t forgotten about the smaller details either! My latest prey: belly balms.

Article after article I read glowing endorsements from stunning, unscarred, flawless celebrity mothers swearing by each and every product. Some have even designed their own specialty lines to take advantage of the outrages vulnerabilities of soon to be mothers. Seriously…? A tiny tub of belly balm promising to prevent any evidence of an overstretched belly is how much? I need the accompanying exfoliator too? It’s a joke, right? I sift through endless pages of lotions, creams and oils all promising that I too can look like Miranda. “The best way to avoid stretch marks is to use…” Ah, correction please. The BEST way to AVOID stretch marks is to AVOID a stretching stomach. End of discussion. 

Regardless, I know hydration (and genetics) is the key, and generally, it’s a good guide to stay clear from the highly marketed brands whom make their money by convincing the impressionable to pay up for the easily accessible ‘cheap and nasties’ (pie-o soil and charmers sound familiar?) With all those types out of the way, I’ve assembled a short list and now have to weigh up which products are worth the investment. Yes, an investment in the future ‘supple-ness’ of my post-baby skin (*Insert eccentric hysterical laugh here*) At the end of the day, I really don’t care if I look like a human zebra. I’m happy to join the belly stretched club, but it doesn’t mean I won’t give it a go to prevent it. C’mon, we all can be a little shallow sometimes. Luckily, water is free, and I drink copious amounts of it to satisfy my apparent unquenchable thirst. Hydration: tick. On the product front, the humble pantry coconut oil wins out (with a dabble in Bert’s Bee’s belly balm) and it’s been incorporated into my daily activities. Weet-Bix with preaches (think of the folate!), followed by my Pregnancy and Breastfeeding Multivitamin, accompanied with a thin layer of coconut oil rubbed onto the tum. Afternoon sees psyllium husk with liquid fish oil ending with a thick lather of coconut oil from neck to knee. What has my life become? I’m a high fibre, hydrated, oily ball.

Once this life altering decision has been made, I can now move onto the next thing on my list. It’s a never-ending cycle. You see, knowledge is power. The more power I have, the more control I can enforce. The more control I can enforce, the less likely anything can go wrong. It’s flawed logic, but it gets me through the days. You would think since the news has come out, that I now wouldn’t need to hold my breath, but I’m still starved of oxygen. Maybe I’ll catch my breath after the next scan? Maybe once I’ve reached 21 weeks? Maybe once he’s born? Maybe never?

It’s the 29^th January 2013. Today marks my official first day in my permanent role at work. Today marks my first public outing with my belly on full display. Today is my first practise of having it all together. Today marks the week a year ago when I told hubby I was pregnant the first time. Today marks my 26^th birthday. I never make birthday fuss and the greatest thing about your birthday falling on the first day of the school term is that no one remembers. But also, the worst thing about your birthday falling on the first day of term is that no one remembers. As I return home with my tiny violin playing on my left shoulder I don’t feel worthy of celebrating. I reopen my computer and I again resume my research … drown my sorrow with words… with information… with forums and discussions… drown out the fear, the disappointment.

I’m so alone… until… 

… that all so familiar feeling engulfs me. The little fluttering bubbles… a rolling tap that fills me with both dread and elation. Hello Little One. I lather my growing belly again in coconut oil. I smell delicious. Maybe I’m not so alone after all. 

 “For every woman unhappy with her postpartum marks, is another who wishes she had them”

“ Do not fear for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned…

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” -Isaiah 43

Damaged, dry, desolate, lacking.

With all the many blessings that surround me daily; with health, family, friends, safety and freedoms… I’m dry. A vacuum. I’m living in a wasteland. Every morning I place my hands on my belly. I take a deep breath and attempt to at least utter a plea to God. Every morning all I can voice is, “I’ve got nothing.” Nothing. I’ve got nothing to say. Nothing to ask. No appeal. No defence. I still continue to drag myself to church on Sundays. The music is suffocating. It’s moving. It’s a battle to endure. I will not let myself be taken by it. Every word now bares so much weight. Too much weight. I’m blessed, but angry. I’m faithful, but filled with doubt. I’m grateful, but silent. I’m still damaged, but remain. Life’s moved on, but I’m stagnant. I feel as if I’m destined to feel this way forever.

 Someone fix me.

I’m now 15 weeks and 6 days. The time has arrived for my next ultrasound. The ‘early anomaly scan’ can be done from 15 weeks and is the earliest time any ‘anomalies’ can be detected, hence its name. It’s amazing that only in these short few weeks since the last scan, everything is in existence. Everything should now be in its right place. It’s also the earliest that gender can be accurately determined. The great debate… to find out or not? We’ve already decided we want to know. I need to know. I need to imagine him/her into health. I’m already convinced it’s a girl.

I let hubby come in this time. Our doc does his work as I stare intently at his face looking for clues. He catches my eye; “If I’m quiet and say nothing, it is a good thing”, he assures.

“Perfect health. Your baby is perfectly healthy. Nothing like last time.”

Does this mean we can breathe now? Before we leave, we ask the doc if he knows the gender. With a chuckle he exclaims “YES!” and scans back over my tummy. He makes conversation asking us what we think we’re having. Hubby can tell instantaneously. I have no idea what I’m looking at. It’s a black and white blobby puzzle. The doc explains, “That’s the legs wide open… and that’s…”

A boy!

I’m in disbelief. A little man. A son. Our son.

With the news of health we have received, it’s finally time to go ‘public’. School holidays are nearly over, so the timing has worked out well. There’s no more hiding this stomach. We make it Facebook official with a cutesy family photo. It’s fake. There were no smiles before or after that shot, which was taken with my phone on timer hitched up on our garbage bin. For me, however, it’s a testament of things to come. For now we are fearful, but one day I will look back at that photo and feel joy. I will be grateful we did it. I will… I believe it. It will be my self-fulfilling prophecy. No more denying. Toughen up that skin. Get that smile ready. You’ve got the world to fool. All is ok. You are blessed. You’re ready for this.

Do not fear. I will be with you. Do not dwell on the past. I am doing a new thing.

With all this news of health, the arid residual air still breathes through me.

I’m bone dry. I’m getting desperate.

God, please send your stream. I’m tired of living in this wasteland.

What if I fall?

 Oh, my darling, what if you fly?

“May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears”- Nelson Mandela

“Come dressed as something starting with ‘B’!” It’s my big bro’s 30th party, the day after the scan, and we’ve decided to keep our news quiet until tomorrow. You wouldn’t believe it, but the whole world doesn’t actually revolve around me. Something starting with ‘B’…hmmm… Maybe I can go as bloated? Or bossy? Or maybe I could just go as a pair of sore boobs? Or a bucket of bile? I seem to already be all these things! Save cost? Considering all things, we eventually end up going as ‘bogans’, which surprisingly (or not) didn’t require too much altering to our natural appearances… stick on tattoos, rolling stones singlets, a chopper mo. Voilà! Do you think the sealed beer I’m holding is fooling anyone? 

The anticipated day has arrived. It’s the next day and we’re finally going to share the news. Does that make it more real now? At one of the regular family summer gatherings, we nervously reveal our ‘secret’.

My mum stared at the ultrasound in disbelief, as if she’d been blind-sighted. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Even all the comments of suspicion she’d received from others over the last few weeks hadn’t aroused any scent of our secret. Surprise, mum! My brothers and sisters, however, confessed that they’d already come to the conclusion that I was either pregnant or just getting fat. Gosh, I mustn’t have hid it very well at all! Our news is welcomed with gladness as  expected, even with my stern warning to not tell anyone. With this revelation, I feel a little bit of weight has lift.

But the jinx continues…

I am in no way superstitious, but I feel that every decision, every move and every thought is shadowed with this idea of ‘jinx’. Jinx is dictating me. Don’t get excited, you’ll jinx yourself. Don’t get too comfortable… or jinx! Don’t do anything too thoughtful… that’s a definite jinx! Don’t put your heart on the line. Dont’ feel. Don’t celebrate. Don’t harbour joy. Don’t shelter expectation or you’ll jinx it all. I feel it… and I’m starting to believe it.

Jinx has plagued me for a while.

I’ve managed my predisposition and anxious inclinations since I was quite young. No, I’m not insane (or maybe I am?) and I’m aware when my thoughts and feelings are irrational. Don’t confuse me with being ‘fussy’. I am, but I’m not. Imagine having  uncontrollable intrusive thoughts and feelings of anxiety. Imagine feeling that your day-to-day actions somehow have a direct dire consequence on loved ones or on the world around you. Imagine if you felt that your repetitive rituals were the only way to relieve your anxieties and to appease those thoughts or feelings. Imagine the spin if you had feelings that all things were ‘ensouled’, or felt the drag that your little, habitual ways just may be keeping the world ‘in balance’.

 Luckily, in my teens, I became aware of these thoughts, anxieties and attachment to ‘things’. Since then, I’ve made a conscious effort to eliminate all rituals and regularly throw, or give away items to avoid accumulating ‘stuff’. I’ve learnt to simply let things go. All things; untidy things, crooked things, sentimental thing, unnecessary things. I could make serious dollars working for one of those ‘declutter-your-life-hoarder-type’ shows! Need someone to throw something out for you? Need some paperwork organised? Call me! It’s amazing how much power you can  enforce on your own mind when you grab it by the horns and compel it to yeild… but of late, I feel my grip is slipping. This idea that any gesture or thought will jinx this baby needs to stop… and it needs to stop now. 

We’ve decided to share the news with a handful of friends. I feel this may be an opportunity to try and celebrate the news without thinking that I’m setting myself up for more hurt. So to redeem myself – to take back control – I think of a more creative manner to share the news in a way that will draw the attention away from the fragility of the situation, and focus on the goodness in my gestation reveal.

Something simple… something thoughtful…  Cupcakes? What an idea! Instead of my dear friends staring at me with eyes of “this is wonderful news after the crappy news you gave us last time”, at least now they have something sweet to stare at instead… and even better, I don’t have to say a word. Perfect! I’m making progress at least. A little parcel of cupcake goodness will be my bearer of good news.

And with this progress, I decide it’s time to finally take a belly photo. You wouldn’t understand how hard this decision was and to convince myself that the camera won’t jinx me! I made the decision in such haste that I forgot my pants, but let’s be honest, no pants are the best kind of pants anyway. Photo one: 13 weeks and already 5kg heavier.

No more cupcakes for you dear…

“Reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’  the loss; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.” -Kubler-Ross & Kessler

“Your mind is your home. Treat every thought as a guest or a pest”

I’m now 12+3 weeks. For those of you screaming at your screen, “that’s 3 months!”, I understand your frustration. I once scratched my head in confusion when women measured their gestational period in weeks and days. Stop being so fancy and just say your 3 months… or 6 months… or 9 months… and stop confusing me with your week! However, since this whole pregnancy ‘journey’, I’ve come to appreciate the changes and importance of every single week and day. At 9 weeks my embryo graduated to ‘foetus’ status. It didn’t get to wear a graduation gown and we didn’t buy it a car, however, it’s a milestone denied to many. This week alone, my foetus is responding to external sensations and may even ‘flinch’ when my tummy grumbles. It’s thyroid gland, pancreas and gallbladder actually begin working, and if you’re carrying a little girl, she will already have over 2 million eggs in her ovaries… so essentially you may be carrying both your daughter and the blueprint of your grandchild all at the same time. Did I say that this all happens this week? Week 12! This week its little hairs will start to grow and it will start making facial gestures; a smile, a frown, a squint. Every single week marks a new set of achievements. Every week marks a new day of living, growing, surviving. So when you see that women rubbing her apparent non-existent belly, know that each week is significant and some serious magic is happening in there!

With all this in mind, its that scary nuchal translucency scan time. I’m back at the hospital and that sickly feeling has returned. I wish I could leave my body until they tell me everything is ok. Husband has been allowed to come with me this time, but I’ve forced him to stay in the waiting room. I need to ensure everything is fine first. I have a new doctor, however, I’ve ended up with the exact same nurse as last time. She senses my nerves and reminds me to breathe. She speaks words of life over me, “This won’t be the same as last time.” The doc reads through my files and begins scanning. I don’t want to be here. Body, fly away to a happier place. Don’t look at the screen… just don’t do it to yourself. Unexpectedly, I hear a giggle emerge from the seemingly reserved doctor. There it is; my foetus in black and white, on the screen hanging from the roof, in all its baby-like glory. I see a head, body, legs, arms and that heart ponding like a trooper. My little foetus is quite the kicker and continues to wiggle and squirm while the doc comically takes chase to get the still frames he needs. I feel relief for a moment, before my head delves into the worse case scenarios once again. “It is suppose to move that much?” “What if it’s having a fit?” Yes, my mind goes to strange places sometimes, but I trust the doc knows what he’s going.  Once he has the ‘stills’ he needs, I ask husband to be brought into the dark room to meet his little foetus on screen for the first time. It’s a weird moment of silence, disbelief and apparent hesitation. We both know its still too early for us to celebrate, and we avoid any extended eye contact in fear that if one cries, this mighty front will crumble.

The doctor books all my subsequent scans, with the most important one in 3 weeks time: the early anomaly ultrasound. The nurse then types into a machine, which spits out our ‘statistics’. Our results have emerged as being good, something like 1:20,000 and I scoff . Yes, you heard me… scoffed. I never imagined such rudeness could ever invade my manner and sprout through my lips.  To me, this statistic meant nothing. I resent it. The last statistic I was given was 1:400,000 births! That meant that nearly half a million healthy babies would need to be born before we went through what we had experienced.  But what about this lowly ‘1:’ in this magical statistic? The ‘1:’ who actually has the sick child?  The ‘1:’ who has the condition. The ‘1:’ that dies…

Luckily for me, she was a lady of grace. We were once that ‘1′ and she agrees; there is no guarantee. But isn’t that life? It’s amazing that in uttering my grievance I realised how right I was, but at the same time, how foolish it sounds. I’m so busy looking for my guarantees, looking for  the signs and the wonders.  For something or someone to tell me that it will be ok. To be assured. To be promised. Its easier said than done, but in my foolish chatter, I’ve come to remember that we’re not promised tomorrow. Even though the seemly insignificant ‘1:’ is an unfortunate reality, the 20,000 or the 400,000 who are born with their health is so too a reality. For now, I cannot turn my fear off, but I can be grateful for that doctor, for that nurse, for the technology all used for my benefit, and ultimately, for that heartbeat. And hope we’ll be lucky enough this time to not be the 1.

“You may not understand today or tomorrow, but eventually God will reveal why you went through everything you did.”