The Last Time

Nights around here have been rough. Osita has the same cold that I have (she’s had hers for a while so she’s past the worst part and about a week into the hacking cough part) so not as much sleeping is happening here as any of us would like. Poor Mi.Vida has to listen to our surround sound coughing all night, he’s probably getting as little sleep as either of us are).

Last night was better than the one before. I ate dinner and took my vitamins early and then downed a dose of Mylanta right before bed. The heartburn still threatened to relegate me to the glider for the first part of the night but in the end it was manageable enough to stay in bed. And it never reared it’s ugly, fiery head during a later wake-up. But even without the heartburn my cough, stuffy nose and sand paper throat kept me up more than usual. I think tonight I may finally be able to get a decent amount of sleep. Here’s hoping.

This morning, as I was getting ready at an ungodly hour (what else is one supposed to do when she can’t fall back asleep despite having an hour until her alarm goes off), I was struck by the realization that this is, most likely, my last pregnancy. Ever. How could I have forgotten that in the past few weeks, as my anxiety has pushed me past the brink of just wanting this pregnancy to be over into NEEDING my son to be in safe in my arms, away from the possibilities of unexpected, unexplained stillbirth?

This morning, something deep inside reminded me. This is my last pregnancy. Almost certainly my last pregnancy with my own child (I have been contemplating being a surrogate in a few years, though I’ve backed off on that idea since the conversation with Mi.Vida about how he doesn’t really enjoy, or even tolerate, pregnancy).

Pregnancy is something I actually quite like. Sure it has its down sides, as do most things in life, but all in all I like pregnancy. At least, I like the second and third trimesters of pregnancy. And sure you could point to a bazillion comments, and some entire posts, that could be used to disprove that statement but honestly, I’m a pretty big fan of being pregnant. I like the way my body changes. I like feeling a baby move inside me. I like wearing new and different clothes. I like seeing what my body can accomplish. I like the idea of another person being nurtured inside of me.

And of course, there is so much about it that is hard and challenging, and I actually plan on writing a post about how much harder I think a second pregnancy is than a first (at least for me that has been the case) but ultimately, I’m a bit of a romantic about the whole idea of it. I like being pregnant. I think if I could know, unequivocally, that my son would be born happy and healthy, I’d be mourning the end of this pregnancy something fierce. Even with all the heartburn and the constant peeing and the pelvic pressure and the pain.

I really do like being pregnant. And I am about 95% positive this is the last time I’ll ever be pregnant. And that is something I should probably be tackling in the coming weeks, lest it hit me after my son is born, when it’s too late to really process it.

It’s funny that I let that little fact slip away from me. Just like I’ve let the miraculous nature of this pregnancy slip away, like I’ve forgotten how insane this conception was, how unexpected and frankly unexplainable it was that we got pregnant the month we did, let alone with our diagnoses. How did I forget how special this experience is, what an incredible gift, a treasure that I promised myself I would never take for granted.

And yet, it seems, that I have. In all the fears of how my family and I will cope, in all the gripes about the physical difficulties, in all the anxiety ridden moments of not knowing how it will all turn out, I’ve let myself forget how much I wanted this. How hard I worked for it. How I was told it wouldn’t happen and how I didn’t let myself believe. How, when I realized the only options available to us were actually out of our reach (financially), I researched other options that might help, and they may have actually made the difference. How we were preparing to let go of this dream right when it was thrust back at us. How overwhelmingly grateful we were to have this chance.

I’m so glad I remembered, in these final weeks, what this pregnancy really means. What an incredible experience it is, and how fortunate I am to have it. I don’t think I’ve ever taken on of my son’s many kicks for granted, but they are once again imbued with an overwhelming sense of awe. This happened to me, despite some really shitty odds. My son is a part of my life despite so many of our limitations. We are so incredibly lucky to have this baby with us now. And we have no real reason to believe he won’t be with us for a long time to come. I must never lose sight of the supreme gift he is. And I’m so glad I remembered.

One response

  1. I kind of liked being pregnant, too. Not all the aches & pains, but feeling so special for growing a whole new person inside of me. As uncomfortable as I was, I’m very sad to be done (I still think about it a lot).

    That said, when I was pregnant the first time I went to childbirth class and I ran into a woman who’d been in my infertility support gropu. I was so relieved to hear her say “I am so ready to be done! I’m over this!” Because so often when we struggle for so long to get pregnant, we feel like we can’t complain about the physical discomfort. So I hoe you can balance just getting through the next few weeks with appreciating the moment, and don’t feel bad if you swing in one direction or another about it.

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