Another post from the past. I’ve said here several times that when I get pregnant again, I want to enjoy every moment. Celebrate every day. Live not with fear but with hope and excitement. That’s what loss taught me I wanted, more than I wanted to be cautious and “smart.” But I am a worrier by nature, always have been (ask my mom), surely always will be, and I knew that would be a tall order.
Except I’ve known I was pregnant for four days, and so far, it’s not. Who am I? Who is this person, so eager to share her news, not even 4 weeks pregnant and wanting to shout it from the roof tops? With knowledge of what could be, but not fear?
Amy taught me this: there is no “safe” time. There is never going to be a guarantee. If I wait to tell you at 12 weeks, 20 weeks, even 38, that still doesn’t mean I’m going to get to bring home a baby. This new baby won’t be a sure thing until the doctors take him/her out of me while I ask frantically if he or she is alive. And if the worst happens, I will share that too, so why not enjoy the moment while it’s here to be enjoyed?
There are things of course that I will not do yet. I will not be buying nursery furniture for a long, long time. I’m not starting a baby registry. Adding myself to due date lists on internet forums. Putting away the wee handknits was heartbreaking last time, so I’ll hold off on that, too. But those aren’t the things I’m focused on.
This is one of the things I mean when I say that Amy – having her, losing her – changed me, forever. And if I’m being honest, it was for the better in every way, though I’d give it all back in a split second if it meant I could have her back, alive, with me, growing older every day. But I can’t, and somehow grief and loss has left me more free.
So today, I’m 4 weeks pregnant, and I’m so, unbelievably, excited.