Confession Time

I hate being pregnant. There it is in black and white for the world to read. I hate it. I dread every day. The nausea of the first trimester, the constant fear of ‘what if?’, the weight gain. I loathe it all. Here I am at 12 weeks pregnant, “out of the woods” so to speak. Statistically speaking, if I were going to lose this baby it would have already happened. I am not a statistic. I have lost two babies in the 2nd trimester. One at 14 weeks and the other at 18 weeks. I don’t lose them in the beginning when they are unrecognizable clumps of tissue. I don’t know if that would be easier; I suspect not. I lose them when I can see their little faces and count their fingers and toes.

I have my first OB appointment next week and the thought of it makes me want to cry and scream in fear. Twice I have gone in for OB appointments and a “quick peek” to make sure that the baby is doing alright. Twice I have seen my dead child floating. Gone and I had no clue. Their mother who went about her business while her babies died. There is no safe time. No point of reassurance until they are born and I can hold and protect them. I do not know how other women, who have lost many more than I, deal with the choking fear of loss.

All I have is faith and hope, and the knowledge that if my babies don’t get to rest in my arms, then they get to rest in God’s. My soul swells with this knowledge, but my flesh shrinks back in fear. Who knew that a day would come when I would wish for the nausea to return and distract my mind from now until Wednesday?