I am bargaining with a God I don’t believe in, begging favors from a universe I’ve already dismissed as cold, random, and heartless. My own heart races and beads of sweat run down from my brow. I lie here, still in bed on my left side, and I pray to whatever deities may have been left on earth — curvy goddesses of fertility, may you take me in your arms and let me rest my head on your breast. I offer you a single flower, almost pornographic in its promise of fecundity and life.
I still fret over not feeling much movement. Perhaps baby is too small for me to feel. I dread IUGR, which afflicted my darling Molly. Perhaps there is something structurally wrong with him — Molly’s legs were locked together in a fixed position.
At my last ultrasound, there was some sort of cyst. They told me it was nothing, that it required no follow up. Was that true? Is a higher resolution ultrasound going to reveal trouble?
And the thousands of things to worry about are swirling in my gut, my head is spinning off into another plane and here I am, your story’s tragic heroine and I am sick, and I am tired, and all I want is to break free of all the loss and soulsickness and live again…
Scan is tomorrow at 8.45 PT. Everything has been building up to this. Please, please, please let him be okay. I am nauseated by panic, gagging on my Smartwater. Distraction is inevitable and I find it hard to maintain a train of thought as electricity burns down my neural pathways. I find myself singing tragic Jawbreaker songs to baby, wishing that my repertoire was full of happier music. Sigh. I am still very much a nihilist. Oh, well.
And if the scan goes well, another landslide of worries will sweep over my rickety home. I’ll have to deal with the bureaucracy of social services, since I am on disability. We’ll need to look into WIC. I’ll need to *gulp* tell my mom, and Geoff’s parents, and so many others, like our landlord. Christmas plans will have to be adjusted since my EDD is December 29. I’ll have to acquire a hell of a lot more stuff, and we’ll have to fix our transportation issues (truck has no backseat so we need a new vehicle).
Thousands of worries. I am laying in a hole in the ground, being covered with fresh fertile soil, buried in anxiety, and still crying for my lost little ones…
Geoff and I went to see friends yesterday. Our friend D is ninety-one years old and our other friend K takes care of him. Because D won’t be around forever, they are the only two people IRL we’ve notified of our latest pregnancy aside from my various health care professionals. Oh, and Geoff let slip to his twin brother.
K asked a few questions about how things were going. It was so strange to be voicing my fears out loud, to another person that was showing empathy and was genuinely curious. I can’t pass for just fat anymore. My belly, which got big quickly, is now rounding out and has become more shapely. I am definitely looking pregnant. Which is exactly what K told me. K has four kids, I think. She mentioned knowing someone that had had a miscarriage. She was sympathetic anyway. It was sort of nice.
I still hide out at home every day. I wonder if my scan goes well, how will I transition back into the world? Because all I want to do is remain hidden from the world.
Ultrasounds are the WORST. I hate when the techs don’t say anything. I hate wondering what the fuck they’re looking at. Of course I have to go to an outside place to get it done. Anything to ramp up the terrifying prospect of having this stupid fucking scan.