Letter: 10 Weeks 2 Days Pregnant

This is the last of my archived letters to Fake Baby; from now on, the letters that I post will be current. Hurrah!

October 22, 2010

Dear Fake Baby,

Hi, lovebug!  Today I am ten weeks two days pregnant.  Yesterday I posted on a message board that I frequent that I thought my symptoms were finally, after seven weeks of feeling shittastic, dissipating.  I didn’t feel quite as nauseated, my energy level wasn’t negative eighty anymore, and I was just feeling more like myself.  Naturally, of course, karma got me for that one, and I spent the rest of the evening wanting to throw up my stomach slash go to sleep RIGHT THIS INSTANT.  I had a particularly bad ninety minutes between four and five thirty this morning when I simply could. not. sleep.  I felt that sick.  So yes.  Lesson learned, humble pie eaten, etc.  I will no longer offend the pregnancy gods by presuming that you are done making me feel hungover and old (sidebar: who can name that Ben Folds Five song?), but instead, will embrace the nausea and exhaustion like a pregnancy goddess…or something.

The highlight of this week is definitely that your Dad and I got to hear your heartbeat.  I had my first ‘official’ prenatal appointment on Monday night, and the doctor, the wonderful, perfect, awesome doctor, worked really hard to find your little heartbeat for me.  The nurse who tried first assured me that, since I was at the time 9 weeks 5 days, the heartbeat might not be detectable yet, and that I shouldn’t panic if she couldn’t find it.  Of course, as soon as she couldn’t find it I panicked.  But my doctor, after she did my pelvic exam (sidebar: Preston witnessed his first pelvic exam!  Lucky guy!), said that, since she could feel that my uterus was tilted to the right, she would focus the Doppler on the right side of my body and see if she could hear anything.

We waited with bated breath as the doctor rubbed the Doppler over my gel-covered belly.  My digestive system is fascinating to listen to, let me tell ya.  And then – behold!  A pulse!  Except that it was mine.  BOO.  Never have I been so disappointed to hear my own heart beating.  STUPID HEART.  She moved the Doppler a little farther down, and all of a sudden – whoosh, whoosh, whoosh (except WAY faster than that: more like wooshwhooshwhoosh) – I heard you.  A broad grin spread over my face – I have never been more happy to be half naked and in stirrups.  Hearing your little heartbeat and knowing that you are – in spite of my fear – doing just fine…that was such a relief, and such a joy.  Your Dad and I were so excited that night.  I called your Grandmother right away – she had been waiting for the news as well – and sent a message to my friend Ab (one of my few friends-with-babies who’s known about you since the beginning), and it struck me how loved you are going to be.  You have such a crowd awaiting your arrival; I hope that you always know that, and that whenever you feel alone, I’ll remember to remind you that you’ve had a support system since you were the size of a kumquat, and that these people – these people who love you – are awesome.

On Tuesday, the day after we heard your heartbeat, I woke up feeling worse than I’d felt maybe in my whole pregnancy – cramps, stomachaches, the whole lot.  And then, mid-morning, I started spotting.  At first it was pink, then tinged with brown.  Both of these colors of blood are supposed to be safe – as long as it’s not red, my doctor told me over the phone, I should just try to take it easy and not worry – it was probably fine.  Because I am crazy, however (also because spotting was an indicator of miscarriage for me in July), I FREAKED OUT.  Somehow I managed to teach my class, but I stayed home from my seminar, and ended up turning in the paper for that seminar two days late.  I spent most of the afternoon crying.  Seriously.  I used up a good half a box of tissues.  I was so worried about you, and so furious for allowing myself even to be the teensiest bit excited that you might, after all this, survive.  In the end, the spotting stopped.  The cramping stopped.  Life returned to normal, and with every wave of nausea I’ve had over the last day, I’ve breathed a tiny sigh of relief, because it means that you are (likely) ok. 

I find that, even though I’m able to write you these letters, I still don’t really believe that you are mine sometimes (read: most of the time).  I know that you’re in there, and the odds are that you will be just fine, and that, sometime around May 18, your Dad and I will welcome you into our family, but I’m still so scared.  So, so scared. 

When I saw my therapist this week (and yes!  I see a therapist!  I hope that we’ll always talk honestly about this in our family) she told me that, although my fear was valid, I needed to let it the hell go (ok, she didn’t exactly use those words.  But that was her gist).  Because yes, this is a precarious time, but it’s also a joyful one – as I wrote a few weeks ago, this is our time – a time when I have you all to myself, and I don’t want to lose sight of that.  So from now on, little one, I promise I will try harder to relax, to breathe deeply, to believe in this pregnancy, and to have faith in my body to take care of you.        

This week my therapist wants me to buy a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting (so that I’ll feel less alone) in addition to treating myself to some new bras (so that I’ll look like less of a porn star).  These are two steps that I know I can take.  I’ve been too scared to take them simply because I’d jinx myself, but I’ve just got to take the leap.  Also my boobs really hurt.  Taking my bra off at night has become basically the best part of my day.  You’re welcome.

My therapist also informed me that I have a telltale pregnancy “glow.”  This is DEFINITELY fiction, because I have never felt uglier.  On the days that I don’t just feel hungover, I feel like I’m back in Middle School.  Seriously: I’m moody and have enough hormones to supply several small nations, my WHOLE face has broken out like it’s 1999 (literally), I’m in the looking-fat-but-not-pregnant stage so my clothes fit awkwardly, and it looks as though I don’t know what size bra to buy.  Also, HELLO MUFFIN TOP I HATE YOU.  Seriously, this is exactly how I felt in Middle School.  And, ahem, I did not wear Middle School well.

But lovey, you are so worth all of this.  I think about you all the time, and pray that every day will bring you a little more strength (and a little less tail).  I know that, in the end, even if you sometimes make me feel hungover and old/awkward and angsty, you will turn my life upside down in every possible wonderful way.  And I can’t wait.

I love you,

Mama