Week 8

I enter Week 8 guardedly. The initial happiness of my misdiagnosis has worn off and I am back to anxiety. I stress intensely over the indiscretions of the last week....the smoking and drinking. Not that it was in excess. But we know that any level of smoking and drinking is bad in pregnancy. I hope I haven’t done any damage. I judge myself harshly and feel like a bad mother. I know it wasn’t entirely my fault…the sonographer was so definite in her prediction, that what else was I to think? I was basically given no hope. So I hope my funk was forgivable. Of course, now that I know that the baby is alive, I have cut all that out… It’s fresh foods, water and gentle exercise now. I am lucky that I don’t have to work (in a structured paid job, that is…Jack IS work, I’ll tell you that much) and I can devote myself to nourishing this baby as best as I can. Of course, I feel guilty and anxious. But I need to tell myself this: when I was pregnant with Sybella, I was perfect. I did not put a foot out of line. I ate well, didn’t drink or smoke (I even crossed the road if I saw someone smoking, to avoid second hand smoke), and only took a panadol if I was at my wit’s end with a headache. I didn’t drink Milo because it had Vitamin A in it, and hid the weed-killer so that the overzealous Kelvin couldn’t spray RoundUp on the the weeds every weekend and expose me to the nasty chemicals. I shook my head at leftover food and tea and coffee. I was a model pregnant woman. And my daughter died. She STILL died. So what I am saying is this: I can try and control every aspect of my pregnancy and be perfect. But ultimately, it is out of my hands. We all know the woman who smoked and drank during her pregnancy and her child ends up winning a Nobel Prize. We all know the drug addicts who give birth to perfectly healthy, normal children.

And we all know the woman who did everything in her power to ensure her daughter’s health, the daughter who took almost two years to conceive, and her daughter died for no reason.
I think that I have had a kick up the Proverbial from the Universe. The Universe let me know I was pregnant for a third time. It let me think all was going well. It showed me a small bleed, which put into motion the subsequent events that would lead me to believe that my foetus was not viable. It would send me crashing into feelings of despair and failure and indulging in behaviours that pregnant women shouldn’t be indulging in. The Universe would then do an about turn, show me a healthy, viable embryo, in spite of acting like trailer park trash for 5 days, to show me THAT IT ISNT UP TO ME! IT’S UP TO GOD AND THE UNIVERSE! Saying that, pregnant mums of course have responsibility for their growing babies. Now that I know I am pregnant, I am taking that responsibility very seriously. You all get me don’t you?
Luckily, The Boss and the counsellors at Mothersafe dont seem at all concerned. They say it is too early to have done any real damage. That comforts me somewhat.
I do know, though, that if I am not worrying about this, I'll only be worrying about something else.
There's no easy road for a pregnancy after stillbirth.

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