On baking

I am pretty overwhelmed with self-consciousness, anxiety and fear right now. It was not surprising that this week the thread of my thoughts have been about alien abduction, probing and long needles. Yesterday, I had an amniocentesis based on the results of my sequential screening. This baby's risks are higher than normal for Down's Syndrome. I cannot say I was thrilled; in fact, internally shrieking in horror was the more apt emotion. It felt like an impossible decision. I admit this weekend, while amazing to be surrounded by women who get it, was also an exercise in self-control. Controlling my freak-outs. Controlling my fear. Not much being able to, or wanting to, talk about this pregnancy made for a good distraction, but I have been fairly paralyzed with anxiety.

I struggled a great deal with my decision to get pregnant. It was not something I ever ever imagined would be easy. I prepared physically for a few months before we abandoned protection, even before I was sure that I would abandon protection. So much of why I resisted having another baby after Lucy's death is the shame of her dying in me. I failed her. I failed my husband. I failed my daughter. How could I put them through this again, or put my body through this again? If I lose another baby, I thought, I'm not sure I can handle that. I'm not sure I could ever parent effectively. I, in fact, knew pregnancy was going to be a painful, anxiety-ridden and difficult period. It was part of the reason I didn't want to be pregnant again. I couldn't bear willingly walking into the abyss.

"Were you even trying to get pregnant?" I felt the judgment cut deep within me. I didn't know where or who it came from, honestly, just that it was suddenly there. The air left my lungs and I probably said something inappropriate, or worse, dismissive. I recognize how fortunate I am. I do not deal with infertility. I do not deal with childless parenting. We set a month to try again. We did it. It worked. I have never felt so ashamed of having something come easily. Mainly, because most of my life, nothing has come that easily. All our work was done making the decision about whether or not to have a child. I have worked my ass off for every little thing in my life, you know, except getting knocked up. That was actually quite fun. It was a perfect day with the breeze coming in the window, and I knew we conceived this child. I whispered it to Sam. My finger bandaged from almost getting cut off in a blender the previous night. "Blood had been shed," I breathed into his neck. "We must have conceived a boy."

As we sat together as a family to decide if we wanted another child, we first weighed our worst case scenarios. What if this baby dies too? How will we handle it? Simply, we just will. The loss of Lucia was a crises of such epic proportions to our family, and yet here we are. We wanted another child, not on a necklace, but in our arms. I cry every day now. I think of that question every day as well, "What if this baby dies too?" I have faced obstacle after obstacle this pregnancy. Bleeding. Diagnosis of disease. Exhaustion. Depression. Now, wonky test results that may mean this child will face a life of struggle. And I think, we didn't weigh that option. "What if you are diagnosed with a condition that may affect the development of your child? What if you bleed for three weeks straight unsure whether or not you are miscarrying? What if you don't feel the baby move until after the twentieth week? What if your child is born with a disability?" I need to be strong for my girl, for my husband, for this life created, for myself. I jog through my days to survive, and run marathons to thrive and make a happy home for the girl. And yet, I also recognize that people resent my pregnancy. That this all appears so easy from the outside. I am a brat for feeling anxious, sad, overwhelmed...I should just suck it up and deal.

I have felt so fucking impotent on this blog. I do not much talk of my pregnancy. I have been prone to magical thinking in the same breath that I reject fatalism and superstitions. I have amassed a pile of unpublished posts about how horribly I am doing. I sometimes think that is an indication that my blog has reached the end of its usefulness. They just sit there. I never publish them because I know how very fortunate I am, because I read post after post about people who hate pregnant women. And yet, I am still compelled to write in small vignettes of emotional waste and daily indulgences. They are my unheard tree felled in the forest.

I found myself driving home on Sunday in a mad rush of exhaustion. I was so tired. I just wanted to be in my own space to cry and deal with this whole reality of possibly parenting a child with special needs. I wanted to hold my husband, and talk about it. What are we going to do now? Luckily, in the same way that I felt uncomfortable talking about this testing this weekend, I also had moments stolen away from the large group where I could sit with someone who comforted me, who explained what I was about to face. That was invaluable. I couldn't have been more appreciative of having some facts. I felt like I went into the exam room armed with reality.

And so I am now waiting each day to see if I will miscarry, and then I will be waiting for another two weeks to hear the results of all the testing.

"Can I bake tomorrow?" I asked the genetic counselor when going through the extensive list of everything I can and cannot do after the amnio.
"Please do," she said.