I have been bleeding, and telling, and dissecting ultrasound numbers – effectively swinging violently between the moments of bliss when baby feels like a reality and others when my post-traumatic stress chimes in to remind me that bad things happen and caution against the arrogance of presumptions.
The bleeding was a sobering moment. A week ago, I was sitting on the sofa in my bathrobe when it started to pour out of me into a broadening stain on the creamy linen of the slipcover. I sat on the toilet, sure that this brief spring of hope and happiness was ending in the puddles of syrupy red draining from my body. I raced to the OB, hands shaking, prepared for the ultrasound to spell nothing short of black doom, but up he popped on the screen, little heart flashing. Miracles, indeed.
It happened again on Christmas night, red and seeping. The blood has kept my anxiety on a hair trigger, but we had our 7 week ultrasound at RMA the following morning, and little bean is still hanging on. Hematomas, apparently, appear to be resolving, but bean was measuring 6w4d at 7w0d, and the fetal heart rate was 113, which got me to Googling and fretting that it should be above 120 at this point and maybe this is just a mirage.
The flip-side has been the pure joy and excitement of what will more likely (statistically, at the least) be: sugar-plum dreams of next Christmas with babe in tow, the healing power of a new little one in the family, moms turned grandmas, brothers turned uncles, and so on. This yummy secret has been a bit hard to contain, despite the fear and worry, so in a private post-Christmas moment, we gave Grandma (my mother-in-law) a bib we bought for her the Saturday before last on a trip to claim Babies R Us as our own. She wept as she unfurled the orange thing from its tiny box, sputtering, “Is this real?”