To do this, I need to have faith. In what, hardly matters. In God, in statistics, in my marriage, in miracles, in myself. In a future that includes putting together a crib, bringing a small human home from the hospital, teaching him or her how to ride a bike, arguing over bedtimes, and so much more. Faith.
Most people start out with faith that pregnancy ends in birth. I didn’t. I was too afraid to have faith. I didn’t want to “jinx it.” Now, though? I just want to believe. Before, I was afraid that having faith would somehow end up with me on the wrong side of disaster, caught unaware. And what’s funny is that in this lack of faith, I ended up in exactly the place I was afraid to end up, and my only regret is that I didn’t enjoy the moments before more than I did.
I found this picture the other day. It’s the last photo I uploaded to my Facebook account before we lost Amy. The very next photos in the album are from the trip we took to Chattanooga a week after she died. I was 20 weeks pregnant, I had just gotten these new maternity T-shirts that finally fit me after trying to squeeze myself into regular shirts for weeks, and I was so happy, in that moment. It was the night before our big 20 week ultrasound, where we found out she had a chin, that she’d likely avoid getting my birth defect. And for the couple of weeks after that, we were happy. We were pregnant, in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to be earlier.
I wish I’d done more of that. I want to do that, this time. And strangely, I’m so much less afraid.