11 Weeks
As of today, I’m 11 weeks pregnant.
Same as I was on July 24th. And exactly seven days later, I had a bloody awful seven-hour miscarriage.
So I’m sitting here today, wondering if this is the last week I get to be pregnant again this time.
Should something go wrong again, I do not think I can stand another round of pity. I know that miscarriage is something that happens to childbearing women, it’s a natural thing, but I hate hate hate the implication that I’m broken. I’ve already had to fight off the label of “broken” once before, and I really didn’t like it then either.
Jason has total faith, and no fear. I envy/admire him for that. He has no idea why I’m flipping out.
I have no reason to think I will miscarry again. I’ve got some pretty serious nausea going on this time, which according to most accounts, is a good sign of baby stickiness. So every day I want to puke, I’m reassured. How perverse is that? I’ve also got a noticeable bulge already. Neither of those things happened with the miscarriage. Small comforts, right?
I talked to my mom earlier today. When I told her I was pregnant the last time, she got all giddy excited, started looking at patterns for the next baby afghan, and all that other good grandma stuff. This time, she’s being cautious right along with me. Somehow that makes me sad. I feel like grandparents should get to just rejoice, and not be along for all the crappy parts. Maybe that’s just me taking too much on myself (wouldn’t be the first time).
So I dunno, file this under “overthinking” or “overstressing” or “jeez, don’t you have anything else to worry about???”. I suppose I should. Let go, let God, right? Wish me luck on this one.