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According to my calendar.
Aug. 4th, 2008 04:36 pmYesterday was my due date for my lost pregnancy. Tomorrow, my current pregnancy will reach thirteen weeks - the point at which I lost the other one.
This is a weird place to be.
I am so, so grateful to be pregnant on the day that, by all rights, I should'vegiven birth been complaining bitterly about when was the damn baby going to come already. I've been watching for this day for the last six months, and praying that I'd be pregnant when it came. I know it would be far harder if I were still feeling broken and barren.
And yet it's also hard to be where I am. The end of the first trimester is supposed to be a tremendous relief - the point at which you know that, probably, everything is going to be Just Fine. The point at which you tell everybody. The point at which vanishing symptoms are cause for relief, not anxiety. Last time, at this point, I had even broken out my least-obvious pair of maternity pants. This should be the point where I can relax, having made it through the dangerous part of pregnancy, and look forward to the genuine pleasure that is the second trimester.
Instead, this is the point where I feel like I'm at risk of being utterly blindsided by tragedy.
I've joined a really good mailing list called SPALS: Subsequent Pregnancy After Loss Support. The SPALS list has helped me keep my sanity through some scary early signs of trouble with this pregnancy, and I admire these women for the supportive community they've created. But the reverse of that support is that participating in SPALS makes me all too aware that you can actually lose a pregnancy at any time. Lots of women on the list have had stillbirths.
My midwives told me to take my progesterone supplements until 13 weeks, which I am interpreting as "the end of the 13th week" rather than as "the first day of the 13th week." After that, they say, my placenta should have totally taken over progesterone production, making supplementation unnecessary. But honestly, as much as I hate those damned things, stopping using them feels like stepping out over a cliff and trusting that something I can't see will break my fall. Who knows whether my placenta knows what the hell it's doing? If I wasn't making enough progesterone, who says it will make enough progesterone?
My first-trimester symptoms, bless them, are hanging on until the bitter end. I've had a bad cold this week, and postnasal drip + human chorionic gonadotropin = ZOMG incredible nausea. I expect that as my cold goes away, so will the nausea. In the meantime: my jeans still fit. I have the Incredible Pregnancy Rack of Doom (now size 36H!!), but that's the only place I've put on any weight. There are still eight days until the midwife appointment at which we may (may) be able to hear the fetal heartbeat with a Doppler. I'm still a few weeks away from the earliest possibility of feeling fetal movement. At the moment, to borrow a phrase from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fairoriana, this is Schroedinger's Pregnancy.
It seems like such a cruel trick of fate that all of these dates converge: the lost due date, the gestational age at which my miscarriage happened, the point at which pregnancy symptoms are scheduled to go away, the point at which I'm supposed to remove the supports and trust my body to do the right thing hormonally.
This is a weird place to be.
I am so, so grateful to be pregnant on the day that, by all rights, I should've
And yet it's also hard to be where I am. The end of the first trimester is supposed to be a tremendous relief - the point at which you know that, probably, everything is going to be Just Fine. The point at which you tell everybody. The point at which vanishing symptoms are cause for relief, not anxiety. Last time, at this point, I had even broken out my least-obvious pair of maternity pants. This should be the point where I can relax, having made it through the dangerous part of pregnancy, and look forward to the genuine pleasure that is the second trimester.
Instead, this is the point where I feel like I'm at risk of being utterly blindsided by tragedy.
I've joined a really good mailing list called SPALS: Subsequent Pregnancy After Loss Support. The SPALS list has helped me keep my sanity through some scary early signs of trouble with this pregnancy, and I admire these women for the supportive community they've created. But the reverse of that support is that participating in SPALS makes me all too aware that you can actually lose a pregnancy at any time. Lots of women on the list have had stillbirths.
My midwives told me to take my progesterone supplements until 13 weeks, which I am interpreting as "the end of the 13th week" rather than as "the first day of the 13th week." After that, they say, my placenta should have totally taken over progesterone production, making supplementation unnecessary. But honestly, as much as I hate those damned things, stopping using them feels like stepping out over a cliff and trusting that something I can't see will break my fall. Who knows whether my placenta knows what the hell it's doing? If I wasn't making enough progesterone, who says it will make enough progesterone?
My first-trimester symptoms, bless them, are hanging on until the bitter end. I've had a bad cold this week, and postnasal drip + human chorionic gonadotropin = ZOMG incredible nausea. I expect that as my cold goes away, so will the nausea. In the meantime: my jeans still fit. I have the Incredible Pregnancy Rack of Doom (now size 36H!!), but that's the only place I've put on any weight. There are still eight days until the midwife appointment at which we may (may) be able to hear the fetal heartbeat with a Doppler. I'm still a few weeks away from the earliest possibility of feeling fetal movement. At the moment, to borrow a phrase from
fairoriana, this is Schroedinger's Pregnancy.It seems like such a cruel trick of fate that all of these dates converge: the lost due date, the gestational age at which my miscarriage happened, the point at which pregnancy symptoms are scheduled to go away, the point at which I'm supposed to remove the supports and trust my body to do the right thing hormonally.
