Saturday, 15 May 2010

7 weeks and 1 days

I'm not the most consequent and diligent of diary writers, am I? Can I blame it on pregnancy? I fear I'll have to regardless, and maybe not in that it made me forget to update, but in that it made me do everything other than update with a predilection for sleeping, mopping about, eating and feeling sick. The past few days have been spent between heaven and hell. Excited, glittery moments of trolling the internet for prams were closely followed by the deepest of depression that I'll miscarry, excited squeals when I heard it's now as big as a raspberry chased by sudden tears at the futility of life and my inability of raising this child while destitute and lonely only to moments later day dream with glee about the colour of the walls in the nursery. Repeat to fade.

As I understand it, all very normal.

On Thursday we visited very dear friends and it's been lovely to first ask if "all all four of us can come" referring to the three of us plus extensive St. Bernhard, then once there refuse the beer for reasons other than dieting, talk about how she found out she is pregnant with each of their amazing boys (the older one always takes pity in the childless entity mommy drags about and lets me hold him or feed him his dinner or such whereas his younger, but clearly smarter brother, demanded to be told why I am back again!) and generally just be pregnant around soothingly amazing people. I've even been one of those annoying people forever forcing their mobile phone screens in the faces of others to see a photo of their baby, except ours was but a jittery pic of a scan of a bunch of blobs.

Friday morning I received two letters in the mail. One is June 21 for the Nunchal and the other is August 3rd for what I suspect is just a routine 18/20 weeks viability one. Makes me believe I stand a shot at retaining my sanity if I get past the following two scans, then invent a need for a third sometime early June and then get me a Doppler.

The evening was spent in lengthy conversations about breastfeeding -that will make up the body of an entire other post- and today we barbecued and it was all rather balmy and relaxing. Well when I managed to stop worrying about the brown spot I thought I saw Thursday evening -not so sure now at all anymore, the theories rage from those firmly in the "Ewww TMI" category to pure and simple knicker-watch-hallucinations!- and more notably, managed to stop worrying about Monday morning.

The way I figure it, it shall be hell Monday only or Monday AND Tuesday because if I manage to survive the suspense and the horrid minutes in the waiting room, as well as the heart ripping silence when the machine cranks up and there's nothing but silence and heads being cocked, then the outcome can only be: A. Extremely bad on Monday morning, no HB, no growth and then we'd still hope till Tuesday, I just know we would or B. Good on Monday morning and then even I would be hard pressed to be worried for Tuesday AS WELL.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit I am stonking terrified, I'm less likely to take it as I would have done a few weeks ago, now, at what we call "nearly 2 months pregnant" I've forgotten all the "Ah if nature/God/destiny decide to take Little Human Being away at least I....."s from what used to be an extensive list. I got nothing. So please God, do me a very solid and let me have him.

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