It’s a slippery and elusive Saturday. Today I am fourteen weeks and in the second trimester. It feels so artificial, more so than the wildest hallucination I’ve ever had. My hands are warm against my belly as I savor the affection and love I have for this little baby. I’m totally attached. It will rend my heart if I have to let go.
I scheduled my 17 week scan for the end of July. Apprehension grips me. Just having an ultrasound on the calendar makes me shake and shudder, no matter how far off it is. I hate them so fucking much. I am terrified that they will find defects and abnormalities, perhaps caused by my medication. I wanted to see my psychiatric obstetrician before this scan for some reassurance, but of course that didn’t work out and I can’t get in to see her until August. My regular psych claims my medication is safe, but I don’t trust her. Please let him be okay. A whispered prayer to whom God only knows.
The scariest thing is that I’m walking around acting like I’m having a baby. I’ve never gotten this big before (as my therapist points out at least three times a session), and I’ve bought new clothes to accommodate this belly. Since Molly died, my most successful pregnancy has lasted only nine weeks.
I’m waiting for the wrath of the heavens to rain down upon me for my arrogance. I put on my Huggy Bear record and revel at the youthful snottiness. The gods have surely been angered, my bratty attitude a jinx. Panic, panic, chants the chorus. And like a marionette, I follow their commands.