I Just Don't Know What To Say

Let me start by assuring you that everything is fine - or at least it was a couple of weeks ago, when we saw the baby's heartbeat on ultrasound. I have no reason to believe that things are still not fine. My morning sickness has subsided for the most part, but at 11w5d, that's perfectly normal. Other than fatigue and my very tender boobs, I've been pretty much asymptomatic. We never found out where the bleeding came from, but it doesn't really matter anyway.

I want to apologize, sincerely, for my absence. It shames me to say that I haven't written anything because I haven't had anything to say...and I haven't had anything to say because so far I have utterly failed at bonding with this pregnancy.

It's not like it was the first time. The first time I was in love from the day I found out. I was so really ridiculously thrilled to be pregnant. I was walking on sunshine. This time I don't feel much of anything. I'd hoped that it would change once we saw the heartbeat. It didn't. My husband cried when we saw her little heart thumping on the screen, but I didn't have much of an emotional response at all. I was glad, certainly, that things were all right...but only distantly.

I've tried to force myself to feel something. I've been telling more and more people, in hopes that their excitement would help me to make this real. I started buying baby clothes. I started making a baby registry. I've bought a book or two. And it still doesn't feel like anything.

The only explanation I have for my lack of emotion is that some part of me must be trying to protect myself from getting hurt again. Some part of me is staying distant so that if things don't turn out well...maybe it won't be as bad as last time. I don't want to think that way (and consciously, I really don't), but why else would I continue feel like this pregnancy is not a real part of my life yet?

I have no doubt that when the baby comes, I'll be head over heels in love. But I don't want to start feeling that way on the day she is born, I want to feel that way now. I want to trust that things will be all right and that we really will bring home a child this August.

Maybe it will change when I start feeling her kick, or when I start showing. Maybe it will change all at once, with no particular explanation for why, just like the day that I realized that I was ready to start trying for another baby. Maybe when I reach the second trimester, which is so very close now, whatever bit of leftover paranoia that I still have will leave me, and I can start to enjoy the thought of being a mom-to-be again.

I just don't know. But I am very grateful for all of the kindness that you all have shown me. I'll try to be better about writing. It's just very difficult right now.

Today

So it's been a little over 24 hours since I peed positive. I'm nervous. I'm trying to take things one day at a time - which is a great difference from how I handled my first pregnancy. During my first pregnancy I focused on various points in the future and counted down obsessively; I had countdowns for the ends of every week and month, one countdown to my first ultrasound, one to the beginning of the second trimester, and one to my due date. I had so many days to look forward to, each for different reasons.

Not so much this time. I know how far along I am (3w6d today) and I know my due date, but I haven't bothered calculating anything else. I think that my first trimester ends around Valentine's Day, but I don't know for sure. I'm not keeping track. I don't even have an interest in thinking about the future because I can't take for granted that this pregnancy will make it.

The first time I got pregnant, I was terrified that I was going to lose it from the very beginning. I knew what the odds were and I knew that there were a lot of factors that were completely out of my control. Everyone, my husband included, dismissed my anxiety as unfounded paranoia. They would use words like "when" and when I corrected them with words like "if," the reaction was often along the lines of, "Don't be silly, you're not going to miscarry, of course there's going to be a baby."

When I did miscarry, I was too wrapped up in my own head and heart to say, "I told you so." But I did think it. A lot.

And now with this, my second August pregnancy, I'm trying more than ever to just keep myself in the here and now and not take anything for granted. Today I am pregnant, and today I am grateful for being pregnant. If I'm still pregnant tomorrow, I'll be grateful for it then too.

August 23rd

I was woken up this morning by a very whiny, very needy cat. Rocky was meowing and pawing beneath the door, a habit that drives us up the wall but we haven't corrected much lately as long as he waits until at least 7:30 (which is when I'm SUPPOSED to get up) to start. I turned off my alarm, determined to sleep in, when I remembered that I'm supposed to take a pregnancy test this morning. Today I am 12dpo, and even though the test had come up negative on Wednesday, there was a chance that it was a false negative. I wasn't all that excited, but it was enough to get me out of bed.

I peed on a FRER and then waited for the line(s) to show up. It took less than a minute for a solid pink line to appear on the right side of the window. A single line. Negative. Yet again.

I can't say that I was disappointed, really. At this point I'm just tired. I sat with my head in my hands and wondered, What is wrong with me? Is our timing completely off? Am I not ovulating? Are we fertilizing successfully, but just failing to implant? I thought about the corpus luteum cyst I had on my right ovary during my last pregnancy, and my failure to get a follow-up exam for it after the miscarriage (I couldn't stand the thought of yet ANOTHER ultrasound in another depressing pregnancy-centric room), and I wondered if it was still there and mucking things up. I thought about calling Dr. D and making an appointment for January, after our next inevitably failed cycle, and winced at the thought of the tests and medications that lie ahead.

And then I looked back at the test, and there was a second line. It was faint - so faint that I couldn't be sure that my eyes weren't playing tricks. I woke Marcus up to make sure - and he could see it too. It darkened slowly and by the time ten minutes had passed, I could see the second line at arms' length even without my glasses on. It was absolutely, undeniably, amazingly POSITIVE.

I have a lot on my mind right now and not enough time to get into it all, friends. But you can expect a lot more entries from me, especially now that I have more to write about.

I'm trying not to get too excited. Anything can happen. It's still really, really early, and my chances of a loss are very high. But at least we made it this far. At least I know it's still possible.

My due date is August 23, 2009. May this one stick around long enough to meet us then.

A [Not So] Brief History Of Passion

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted badly to be a mother. Some little girls want to be dancers when they grow up, some little girls want to be revolutionists, some little girls want to be Mensans, and some little girls want to be the best athlete/writer/doctor/fire fighter that they can be. I wanted to be quite a few of these things at one time or another as a child; but I changed my mind about as often as I changed the barrettes in my hair. The one thing I never changed my mind about or doubted was that I wanted to be a mother. There was no doubt about that, ever.

Like many teens, I became sexually active while still in high school. Unlike enough teens (unfortunately) I immediately took responsibility of my sexuality; weeks after losing my virginity, I started on the pill (and stayed on it for almost a decade). I made my appointments for Pap smears and STD screenings every 6 months, and I did all that I could to help my friends do the same. I helped a few of my peers make appointments with the clinic and then drove them there; I compiled all the information I could find about safe sex, pregnancy symptoms, and STDs on inconspicuously labeled floppy disks (remember those?) and distributed them to my friends; I took as many condoms from the free clinic as I was allowed and gave them out to anyone who asked; and I even showed a friend the proper way to put on a condom using an empty wine bottle as a prop. I was known among my friends as the go-to girl for information and advice about safe sex. I would help anyone that needed help, and I would do it without judgment.

I always practiced what I preached, but as I got older and entered committed relationships that I thought would last forever (I'm grateful that they did not, and my husband might be too), a little voice inside my head started to complain. She was getting a bit antsy, with all this sex and none of the pregnancy. But she understood that the time was not right, and it would not be fair to me or any child I had to jump the gun. I wanted badly to become a mom, but I did not want to be a teen mom.

College was more difficult. By then the little voice was not quite as impatient, as I was in a long-term relationship that I was pretty sure would end in marriage [Insert silent prayer of thanks here for that relationship's dismal failure], but she was starting to become paranoid. What if something were not right with me? How could I be sure that I was capable of pregnancy? How could I be sure that I would not have a miscarriage someday?

Back then, miscarriage was a bogeyman to me. It was this beast that lurked deep in my mind, and I was sure that if I ever saw its face, I would not survive the encounter. I had the naive privilege back then of believing that miscarriages were these rare anomalies that only happened to women that had something wrong with them. It terrified me.

In my early twenties, that voice once again began to get impatient. I was not a child anymore, I was not a teenager, but the situation was still not right, dammit! My boyfriend was dragging his feet on the marriage thing (praise Zeus!), and as I started to realize that our relationship was a mess that could not be salvaged (which happened around the time that I realized that his drinking habits were like not your typical college binge drinker, but much more insidious), that little voice inside started to despair. Nothing was happening like I always thought that it would. I had waited, patiently, and the time was still not right.

Surprisingly, less than a year after breaking up with the alcoholic, I met an amazing man. He was so amazing that I broke my vow to be single for a while so that we could date. So amazing that we were married less than a year after we met (on a Tuesday!). So amazing that even though he snores and hogs the bed at night, I love him with all my anxious little heart.

Anyway, after I got married, the little voice inside that for years had only whispered and whined started to yell. I wanted to start trying within a year of our wedding. He wanted to start trying significantly later. It was something we fought about regularly - the only thing we really fought about. When we bought a house of our own, that little voice evolved into a full-fledged banshee. We finally came to an agreement; we would start trying after Christmas.

I got pregnant in November, a month before we were supposed to start trying. I can't really call it an accident, as we had gotten lazy with the condoms (but if you can't have spontaneous unprotected sex with your spouse, then who can you do it with?), and I would never call it a mistake. But it was unplanned. And intensely joyful. And entirely too short.

About a month or two after the loss, I encountered a feeling that I had never once imagined possible. I did not want to be pregnant. I was terrified of the very thought. And rather than being a relief, it was devastating. My one faithful desire, the only thing I have ever been sure of in my life...was gone. I was unsure. I didn't know who I was without it.

This might all seem a bit silly. But everyone has their passions, and while there are people who would be quick to dismiss mine because it's "only" motherhood, I can assure you that the passion I have always had for being a mother is just as valid, just as alive and organic, as some people's passion for music. Some people have a talent for dancing, and they need to dance to be happy. I have a talent with children, and all I've ever wanted to do was raise a couple of my own.

Time healed my uncertainty. It may have happened gradually, but it sure didn't feel that way. One moment I didn't know what I wanted; five minutes later, after listening to this song for the millionth time and having yet another good cry, I did. It was an astonishing relief.

And now here I am. For better or for worse, I suppose.

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My chart looks a little different this cycle. I'm on CD8 and today is my highest temp of the cycle so far, and hopefully it just continues upwards. On my other failed cycles, my temperature peaked at CD5 or CD6 and then it was all downhill from there, tanking around CD9 or CD10. It might not mean anything, but then again, it might. It's different. I know what my chart is supposed to look like and this one has just been different, even pre-ov. Hopefully different means good.

I'm waiting until Saturday morning, when I'm on CD12, to test. I have a date with the stick after my daily romantic interlude with my thermometer. And I'm nervous. I hate seeing those stark white negatives. I hate wishing to see something that will not be there. I hate thinking Yes? and being consistently told No.

I hate putting my hand on my stomach and wondering, Are you there? and being told, time and time again, There is no one here with you.

Education Is The Key To Informed Reproductive Choice

Thank you everyone who commented on Thursday's post. I was rather pleasantly surprised by the overwhelmingly positive response! In the future I'll be addressing a question posed to me about fetal homicide laws; any other questions or comments are very much encouraged (and if you'd rather not make your comments public, you can always forward them to me here.)

Also, I've decided to add a little something else to this blog. In addition to the cat pictures, complaints, and the occasional venture into controversy, I will be using this blog to educate myself and others. One of the things I've realized since my pregnancy is that there is absolutely no shortage of misinformation about reproduction (both male and female roles), pregnancy, birth, and everything that comes afterward.

I am by no means an expert in these things, and my limited experience doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Every woman's body, pregnancy, and birth experience is unique to her, so I certainly can't speak for everyone. But I do enjoy hunting for information and learning more about pregnancy and birth, and you, my dear friends and readers, will be coming along for the ride.

August

Some of you may have noticed that I've changed the name in my profile. However, if you are anything like me, not only did you fail to notice the switch, but you have no recollection of the name I used to display either.

As some of you may remember, I was supposed to have an August baby. After my miscarriage, I started using the name August when signing up for new blogs or forums. For the longest time my grief was such a big part of me, and all I wanted to do was wallow in it while I figured myself out. Now, six months later, I've found myself rather liking the name. So I've adopted it here, not because I want to wallow in my first and (hopefully) only loss, but because it is a large part of me. I changed after the miscarriage, and not precisely in a bad way.

An Exercise In Masochism

It's been a couple of months since my last entry. I've entered some pretty dark places since January, but I've come out on top, more or less. Among the things to get me through my depression were my loving husband, my wonderful friends, and a new hobby: unicycling.

No, I am not kidding. I took up unicycling.

I ride for fun, but it's had the wonderful side effect of slimming me down to my pre-marriage figure. I practice freestyle, touring, and MUni (aka mountain unicycling).

No, I am not kidding. I ride an off-road unicycle on mountain bike trails for fun.

My husband and I have stocked up on condoms. There will be no more pregnancies, not for a long while. I wanted to start trying ASAP when we first lost the baby, but not anymore. I'm terrified of being pregnant again, so we won't let it happen again until I am ready. And I won't be ready for a very, very long time.

I will continue this blog, but it will no longer be about my experience as a pregnant lady. It will just be about me. Sometimes it will be about how I feel as a woman who has survived a miscarriage (I do not use the word "survive" lightly; as mentioned before, I've been visiting some very dark places), and sometimes it will be about the normal goings-on of my life.

I could start a completely new blog with a new title and web address. But that wouldn't be nearly masochistic enough now, would it?

And The Beat Goes On (But Not the Heartbeat, Of Course)

I'm going to try to keep this up, even if no one is reading it (and I don't think anyone is). I would hate to give up a domain name as wonderfully witty as "howtobeapregnantlady[.blogspot].com."
And even though the next pregnancy won't be unplanned, I'll still want to talk about it when it happens.

From Fearfully Cynical to Cautiously Optimistic

One of the first things the nurse at Planned Parenthood told me - after "Congratulations" - was that I might not want to tell too many people about my pregnancy this early in the game. The chance of miscarriage at this point is still pretty high; I've read estimates ranging from 10% to as high as 25%. So her advice was to play it safe, and I agreed with her that anything could happen and therefore it would be better to downplay it until the second trimester.

Since then, I've heard the same sentiment from half a dozen people at least, including my mother-in-law. I signed up for a weekly pregnancy calendar update on a maternity website, and yesterday's email consisted of the message "It's exciting, but you should probably keep it between you and your husband." When my husband told his friends, one of them immediately said that we should "protect our hearts" by not getting our hopes up too high.

Well, after seven days of acute paranoia, I have decided to scrap that fucking plan. I am having no fun. This pregnancy, the only thing that I have always wanted from life, has so far brought very little of the joy I had always imagined it would, because I'm spending every single minute being afraid to lose it.

The way I see it, if I have a miscarriage at any point, I will have spent my entire pregnancy miserable before it came to an upsetting end. If I don't have a miscarriage and nothing else tragic happens, then I will have spent a healthy chunk of my pregnancy miserable before it came to a wonderful end. If I miscarry, I will be sad, no matter when (if) it happens or what my state of mind was before it happens.

So, in the interest of actually enjoying my newfound state, I am saying goodbye to all of that shit. I am ready to step into my role as the ecstatic young wife and mother-to-be. I am ready to bond with the little bean in my belly. After all, it's better to have loved and lost...blah blah blah.

An Apt Comparison

Today marks the last day of my fifth week of pregnancy. I have been aware of said pregnancy for six days now. Despite the fact that I am dying to share the news with any and every friend, relative, and supermarket cashier that I know, I haven't made a wide announcement as of yet, and I don't plan to for at least another two months. It's just too early for that. The sober reality is that anything could happen. I don't like to think about it, but I really just can't help it.

As a consolation prize for keeping such a big secret (mostly) to myself, I decided to make a very subtle announcement on my PC wallpaper at work. Whereas I would love to display sepia-toned faces of babies and booties and kids picking their noses, I fear that would be a bit too obvious. Plenty of people walk by my cube every day, and there is nothing to keep them from seeing my background when I'm away from my desk and the computer is locked.

And so began the search for the perfect image. Something that aptly (but subtly!) describes the wondrous process of pregnancy and childbirth, and yet also reflects just how absolutely fucking terrified I am.

After half a day of brainstorming, I found it.

This is the start of something beautiful.