NewBaby and I are just about 12 weeks along, now. I’ve been able to pick him or her up on the Doppler for about a week, which I love. It instantly provides some “personality” – this kid, for example, really does not like the Doppler. At all. I will plunk it down and hear a nice, strong heart, beating away, for about 3 seconds, and then poof, it’s disappeared off to the other side of my abdomen. Over and over again. This combined with my impression from the 9 week ultrasound makes me think NewBaby is a very active little fetus.
This is the point where most people feel they are “safe.” This is when pregnancies get announced, and strollers and car seats and adorable little outfits start showing up. What’s safe? 20% of all pregnancies don’t result in a live child. At 12 weeks, that number drops to 2%. Most people think that’s “safe.” And 98% of those people are right. Safe doesn’t mean much if you happen to land in the other 2%, though.
So while everyone else due in June is announcing their blissful, destined-for-a-happy-ending pregnancy, all I can think is, 12 weeks. Amy died at 23 weeks, 5 days. So in another 12 weeks, if we are very lucky, NewBaby will be older than our oldest child ever will be. And I remember 12 weeks with Amy. How relieved I was, to go from 20%, to 10% (I was still high-risk). But mostly, I remember how I cried, because those 12 weeks (really, 8) had dragged on for what seemed like forever and I couldn’t imagine how we would get through 26 more weeks like that. If only we had been so lucky. If only I’d had any idea that I didn’t have 26 weeks left at all.
I hate how much I hated being pregnant, last time. It really wasn’t until 20 weeks when I started enjoying it at all. I’m grateful to have this time with NewBaby, with this perspective, which makes the never-ending nausea easier to bear. The daily fetus updates more fun. The time less about counting down the days than conquering them. Because while they sometimes seem to drag on forever, in the end, I can’t believe we’re already to 12 weeks. It seems like just yesterday I called Dan demanding that he come home to look at a pregnancy test. And yet here we are, my belly already gone from “fat” to “pregnant,” NewBaby apparently somewhere around the size of a lemon with all of his or her major systems already formed.
Please let us have 26 weeks left. Consider it my prayer to Father Time.