This has been an interesting 24 hours. It’s currently nearly 8 am, I haven’t slept yet, and I’m waiting to sleep until after I call to schedule with gynecology in thirty minutes. Why? Because I’m 14 weeks pregnant, and I found myself in a small of my own blood an hour or so ago.
I may be miscarrying. I may not. I’m in that schrodinger limbo where the baby will exist as long as we don’t open the ...box. While I was showering off, all I could think was “Of course.”
Because not two hours before, I was looking up when we could feel the baby move.
Because not two hours before, I was looking up whether my stomach should feel hard.
Because not two hours before.... I had finally started to relax and believe the baby would really be okay. That I have safely entered my second trimester for the first time, and this baby would survive.
The baby might be fine. My mild, constant cramping seems to whisper otherwise though. My absolute fear of using the restroom and finding blood all over my thighs and hands again whispers otherwise. My eyes, which keep watering, and my throat, which keeps tightening, whisper otherwise.
This pregnancy has been hard. Hard enough that I had to admit I wouldn’t be trying to get pregnant again after this. Hard enough that work has been a trial, and eating even more so. I’ve lost about 15-20 pounds, depending on the day. I haven’t been able to cook, to clean, to do much more than feeble easy exercises in bed and the shower, to even go grocery shopping.
I’ve been useless, a burden, a dead weight, and I’ve been painfully aware of it. I don’t like the feeling of being a noose around Hubby’s neck. I hope the baby is okay, so I only have to do this once. I hope and I hope and I hope, but I barely dare to breathe, I’m so worried.
“You should try to sleep at least a little.”
Yes, I should. I won’t, but I should.
