This pregnancy is liberty. As I listen to the galloping horses of baby’s heart, my hatred dissipates and the blackened part of my soul gives way to fresh pink tissue. And it’s so fucking fragile I barely dare to move, choosing instead to spend my days trembling and at home where all I need is within reach. The fever is breaking. I might be all right.
Infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss almost brought me to perdition. No matter what the fate of this dear little baby, that part of my life ends here. I’m not afraid of being childless; well, I’m apprehensive to be sure, but it no longer the bone chilling prospect it once was. So I observe the changes in my body from a detached perspective, marveling at all the things it does when it never did much of anything during my previous pregnancies.
It’s a grey morning and I am deliciously sleepy. Lately I feel more and more like a normal pregnant lady. I can’t go sit in my OB’s waiting room and scowl at the rounded bellies of the other patients because I am one of them now, no longer scrawny and out of place.
It’s a trap, the chorus chortles. The universe will turn on you like it always does.
But what if it doesn’t?