As far as I can tell, I’m still pregnant. But I’m no longer feeling the lovely dovey you are my baby thoughts that I experienced momentarily upon thinking I might be pregnant. I have to admit I’m afraid of miscarriage. Part of it is my prepare-for-the-worst nature. But another part is a disbelief that I could function this normally and be pregnant. An acquaintance had an easy 8 weeks, then miscarried. Now she is pregnant again and vomiting.
So I’m viewing the end of the eighth week as a certain marker. When I had a little brown spotting and was really freaking out, I composed a letter to the embryo in my head. I told it I hoped it was developing well and would join our family late this year. But that if it was having difficulty, it was be best for both of us if it left earlier rather than later. I gave it my blessing and understanding to let go.
Hearing a heartbeat will also be a marker that things are OK, which might be possible at my sonogram appointment in the next week or two.
Until then, I’m happy to hold on to a little secret. To know that I’m somehow different, even though I appear to be the same to people. I kind of plan based upon the impacts of pregnancy and a birth, but keep in mind that perhaps it won’t happen after all.
In the meantime, I view it as a seed, a rice kernel, a conglomeration of cells. It hasn’t taken on a human form to me yet. But it has already begun the process of impacting me and changing me.