Wow, it’s rather echo-y in here, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be surprised – I threw white cloths over the furniture, turned off the lights and shut the door behind me in the middle of January. I wasn’t really sure if I’d be back, I didn’t even hire a house-sitter (or blogsitter as it may be) because I needed to step far away and I couldn’t gauge how long I’d need. I even stopped posting on Grace In Small Things because every entry would show exactly what was going on in my world and I wasn’t ready to face being happy.
I have a case of survivor’s guilt. And paranoia that putting my thoughts into the world makes them significantly more real and thus more readily available to fail. Silly. 7 months without and I miss this space greatly since I need the catharsis and an outlet. Without it, I find I’m mentally itching. I’m not processing thoughts as well as I could yet I stayed away because I have significant traffic that arrives from pregnancy loss websites and I remember being that person, searching for solace, searching for sameness, searching for answers. I remember being that person and showing up to a site with a happy pregnant lady or happy baby and feeling the punch in the gut of envy. As much as it made me feel so bad to be so upset at another’s joy, it’s a form of post traumatic stress disorder where even the thought of what I didn’t have put me into a new cycle of grief.
And now, I’m that happy pregnant lady.
We’ve become blessed beyond imagine, found hope after darkness and from where we’re standing, it’s starting to feel like we’ll really-for-sure-no-joking be welcoming a very small person into our lives in mid-October. Every kick, every nauseating morning, every swollen appendage – it’s a constant reminder that we’re so very blessed. It’s marvelous and magical and confusing and exhilarating and every day I want to hold in my memory forever because I can’t stop marveling at this experience. Part may be hormonal where I’m weeping while trying to choose a baby memory book, realizing that this is finally happening. My body is so far working the way it should and although every day is tinged with fear, I’m starting to focus less on losing this baby and more on how to do right by him once he takes his first breaths on his own.
Our first ultrasound was in mid-February. I laid on the table trying to hold myself together, waiting for the sonographer to tell me she couldn’t find the baby, struggling to hold back tears and fighting nearly overwhelming terror. I had the urge to get off the table and just walk away before she could break the bad news. When she said “baby has a strong heartbeat” offhandedly, the dam burst. I was sobbing, sobbing so hard because finally, oh heaven’s finally, a sonographer was giving me good news while I laid covered in jelly. I wept so hard, trying to explain how happy I was between sobs and the tech quickly called in The Husband who had been in the waiting room. He saw that little heart beat as he walked in the room and the joy actually overwhelmed our trepidation. This baby was nestled in my uterus, heart beating fast and strong.
Thinking about it still makes me cry.
Thus I remain, feeling blessed and guilty at the same time and desperately hoping that this feeling of overwhelming grace is found in some way by all those that are searching for it.
Because even with the taint of fear, it’s a marvelous journey.