I’m suffering from a case of FOMO today, looking at all these photos of friends who went to the women’s marches across the nation with their signs, in droves, standing for something. What did I do today? So far I woke up, talked with my man, sorting out some things we had been arguing about (because I’m fucking crazy thanks to these hormones), and ate some pancakes. I did not take a stand, other than “liking” the photos of my fellow revolutionaries.
Statistics I’ve read say that anywhere from 10-25% of pregnancies don’t make it past the first trimester. And every single pregnancy book reminds you of that. So I have to wait until the stroke of Week 13 to even feel a little relieved.
As yet, I haven’t made it public knowledge yet that I’m pregnant. A lot of women tell no one until the first trimester is over. I’ve told my family and friends. I couldn’t keep it to myself. Not because I’m bubbling over with excitement, but because I feel isolated enough already, living as a tired-as-fuck, sicky, emotional basket case who can’t join in the party or go on the ski trip or stay up past 7:30 pm. If nobody even knew why I was acting this way and I couldn’t even get any sympathy, I’d die.
So I take the risk. I tell people when I feel like it. It one of the few exciting things in my life right now. I look at my man and say, “Should we tell them?” and then he nods, so I say, “We’re expecting a baby!” and wait for the mixed reactions. Some people squeal with delight and jump up and down and hug us and say, “You’re going to be the best parents!” and others are like, “Oh wow. Congratulations,” then go back to whatever we were talking about before.
And I don’t want to have to tell any of those people that it isn’t to be. I don’t want to even type these miscarriage fears because I’m afraid I’ll manifest them. But I think of it every day. I feel my belly, which isn’t even showing, to see if it “feels” pregnant. I look for blood on the toilet paper and I have a fright every time I turn over in bed and feel a pain in my side. I worry myself into a frenzy about nonsense, thanks to the scary American pregnancy books that ban everything from runny eggs to a bite of brie. I worry about my relationship with the baby’s father because I’m acting like a complete alien and I’m afraid he will leave me. And what would be worse than losing the baby? Losing it and then losing him, too, because what if he’s actually only with me because he has no choice? Then after all my crying and terror, I worry that my body is going to be toxic to my baby. Or even crazier, I worry that all my complaints over the discomfort and loss of sanity of pregnancy is going to get me in trouble with the Universe. I’m afraid God is going to punish me for not running around glowing. I’m afraid it will be decided, “If you can’t even handle the first few months, you are not a worthy mother.”
I know that the majority of these lost baby cases are due to chromosomal problems and they’re out of my hands. I know all the previous paragraph’s worries are pretty much bullshit. But that’s me now. I rarely used to worry. Now it’s the first thought when I wake up.