When we fell pregnant with Isaac, I had no faith that we would be bringing home a baby at the end of it. We’d been trying to conceive for over 12 months and unlike what I had anticipated, that kind of thing doesn’t just wash away when you see the 2 lines on a pregnancy test.
There was bleeding. Oh god there was lots of bleeding. I remember standing – bleeding – in the shower at 10 weeks pregnant sobbing because I knew that I couldn’t go back to trying to conceive again without going insane. There was the thought of just so much time wasted to be thrown right back into where we started.
Luckily the pregnancy was stronger than my faith in it and it continued on.
At every single antenatal appointment I braced myself to be told ‘no heartbeat’. When I started to feel him kick I would wake up in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep until I felt a movement. I had no faith.
When we found out we were having a boy, suddenly he was much more real to me. I felt him kick and breathed the words ‘my son’ to no one, but I still wasn’t making plans based around the birth of this baby.
This baby that we were oh so lucky to be pregnant with.
Knowing that he was a boy didn’t make me feel any better either. Caucasian boys don’t do as well as girls statistically.
At 24 weeks when I started to bleed I shut off my emotions, made myself cold and just powered through it. At 25 weeks when I was admitted to hospital because I had been spotting and losing my mucus plug, I didn’t think about what it might mean long term. I kept myself switched off, all the way through a diagnosis of infection and a positive fetal fibronectin test (meaning that there was a chance I would go into labour in the next 14 days).
I thought about it, but I was cold; reserved. I weighed odds and chances with no emotion attached.
Because at that point, my baby wasn’t real yet. Sure he was kicking me and I wanted him badly to stay in there and be okay, but he wasn’t real to me yet.
I still had no faith. No faith that I would actually get the happy ending I had fantasised about. No faith in his health and safe arrival.
And still, our baby was stronger than that and we were discharged on antibiotics.
I made it through the horrible 25-34 week period and started to actually believe that we might not go into preterm labour. I started to make plans for the actual birthing of this little one, I knew what I wanted and I wasn’t afraid to make sure Nathan knew it (basically, only Nathan in delivery with me, no one waiting in the waiting rooms etc).
Until I birthed Isaac into my hands and heard his cry, I didn’t believe that we would get there. Holding him was simply a relief, listening to him breathe was a balm for all my worries.
It took a long time for us to get our happy ending and until I held our little boy, I truly believed that it wouldn’t happen. Spending an entire pregnancy waiting for the other shoe to drop is not something I ever want to do again.
And now, he is here and he is real. I have the gnawed on nipples and bags under my eyes to prove it.
But however hard it was, I wouldn’t trade this; my journey, for the world, because in the end, our son was stronger than anything else.
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