22 weeks and terrified

The week before Christmas we went to a really nice wedding. There happened to be an unusually large proportion of pregnant women there, of whom I was probably the least visibly gestating amongst the crowd. We were seated next to one of the pregnant women and her husband at the reception and she was lovely as well as positively glowing with good health. We made a joke about the proportion of pregnant guests being a way of cutting costs on the bar tab.

She asked me how how far along I was, and without thinking, I returned the question. Her answer startled me. '23 weeks,' she replied, nonchalantly, as if it were the least interesting fact in the world. And it probably was for her, because she wasn't making any associations between 23 weeks and that horrible term 'viability'. Perhaps she didn't even know what 'viability' was. Perhaps it had never crossed her mind that her baby could die if born too early. It took everything I had not to shout out 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!'. I couldn't understand why she was out and about in the world without a care as to the danger her baby was in.

All I could think was that I was once 23 weeks pregnant. And then, in a flash, my baby was gone. Just like that. Gone. Gone.

I held back the tears but spent the rest of the evening obsessively staring at her belly in absolute disbelief, perhaps even admiration. How did she do it? How did she make it seem that keeping a baby inside her, at the most crucial time of its development, was the easiest, most effortless thing in the world?

On November 23rd 2011 I was 22+6 weeks pregnant and as far as I can remember feeling fine except for a persistent back ache. Today, January 9th 2013, I am 22+6 weeks pregnant again. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a different baby, a different day, but it's proving so difficult. This week has been hard and horrible. I've hardly been able to breathe inside the suffocating cloud of fear and superstition that's surrounding me. I've been putting off writing anything this week because I secretly fear that in giving voice to my worries I might make them come true. Logic has no place in this experience. I'm full of a million reasons to doubt its attempted reassurances. This baby will die, I hear on repeat. It will disappear at 23 weeks. Because that's what babies do. It's no wonder I'm shaking.

This baby is more real to me than Max was before he was born. I can stare at his picture now and know what this little girl looks like inside of me. I know what her little hands and feet would feel like to touch. I know how perfectly formed she is. She's completely imaginable and knowing this time just what I have to lose makes this overwhelming anxiety even more impossible to bear.

The baby herself is doing all she can to reassure me that she's OK. She's incredibly active, doing whatever form of water calisthenics in which fetuses seem to be trained. Leslie can even feel her when he puts his hand on my tummy now. She's strong, and she's sleepless. She doesn't seem to rest very much. I guess it is because she has too much living to do.

I dare to think of her arriving home with us and keeping us awake all night. We won't be able to complain like other new parents. We'll just look at each other and say 'she's got too much living to do'.

There's no physical reason to suspect that she will be born, as the sun is, with the dawning of a new day tomorrow. My cervix was still long and closed at my examination on Monday and there's no sign of bacteria or infection. If the worst had not happened to me once before there'd be no reason to be at all suspicious at this point, the obstetrician assures me. It helps for a minute before I remember that I cannot trust even her. If the experts could not tell me what happened to cause Max to be born so early then how do I trust that they are any more accurate in making predictions about this pregnancy?

She says she'll see me next Monday, at 23+3 weeks. I shrug, smile and say 'I hope so...'

I only hope so.

A moment of unreserved joy

The week before Christmas has brought us tidings of great joy, so to speak, with the milestone of our 20 week ultrasound finally arriving. I was so nervous for this scan, hyper-vigilant that something terrible would be revealed. The truth is, I wait for something terrible to be revealed every day of this pregnancy, but on that day, like the few that have passed since, nothing terrible came to pass and instead Leslie and I were relieved and ecstatic to find that our little baby is doing extremely well in there, growing strong and kicking all the expected developmental goals.

The TWO HOURS we spent in the waiting room beforehand were rather anxiety-inducing and we became more and more stressed and irritable wondering how on earth the system could be so disorganised. While we waited I was asked to participate in a research project aimed at predicting pre-eclampsia, so getting blood taken and everything associated with that kept us occupied for about half an hour of that time, and made me feel a bit better from the knowledge that I was helping them stop terrible things from happening to other people.

I don't think I saw much of the baby on the monitor during the scan. I was too busy carefully watching the doctor's face as she measured thigh bones and zoomed into brain sections and highlighted blood flow in and around our baby's heart. She was a really nice doctor, but she so happened to have a face that looked concerned when she was concentrating. She kept frowning and screwing up her face and looking closer at the screen without saying anything, and every time she did I stopped breathing, terrified of what she might have been seeing. I think she was just being very thorough, which is good, but I wish she could have been so with a relaxed smile on her face, which would have put me much more at ease!

Our baby was lying with its little hands crossed one over the other and posed perfectly for all the pictures. I have been feeling lots and lots of movement over the last week and the scan confirmed that our baby is a squirmy one that likes to dance around and make the most of all the space it is currently enjoying.

The scan this week took the place of my usual pre-term labour clinic appointment, and so I was subject to yet another transvaginal ultrasound to check the length of my cervix, which is, thankfully, still very long and closed. That's the way it has to stay during these crucial next few weeks and I desperately wish they'd intervene and stitch it or staple it shut, or put me in traction upside down so the baby can't possibly come out. I know a lot more about the old cervix than I did before, but I still don't trust it. I just hope that this constant surveillance is enough to deter it from making any premature moves.

Our annoyance about being kept waiting for so long soon dissipated as we became increasingly intoxicated by the little tidbits of good news the doctor sent our way. Cleft palate? No. Excellent! Cerebellum present and accounted for? Yippee!

Hands in front of face - not a very clear picture, baby!

We were in two minds about finding out the sex of the baby, well, at least I was. Leslie was pretty keen to find out, and I was too, it's just that I was afraid. I had assumed the baby was a boy all throughout the pregnancy so far. It felt right to be having another son, as that's what I had gotten used to, but I also worried I would be upset if it were a boy. I think I was scared I would start to think this baby was Max returned to me if it were another boy; that it would look exactly like him, be exactly like him. I don't know, it's hard to explain. Apart from those fears, the sex of the baby of course didn't matter to us in the way it seemed to matter to me with Max's pregnancy. It's funny how after you've lost a child all the things you once thought you would have wished for your baby get boiled down into a single, ever-repeating phrase: I just want a baby that's alive. You hope that by saying it enough it might just, possibly, in your wildest dreams, come true.

I just kept thinking how I want this baby, this beautiful, healthy, perfect, longed-for baby to live and to thrive, and to come home with us in good working order. That is my Christmas wish, my wish in a fountain or on a star, my prayer to the gods and heavens (all of them) and even Santa Claus if he got my letter. Hell, I'll wish on anything these days.

In the end we did find out the sex. I decided that we deserved the opportunity to have something tangible to celebrate in this pregnancy which is filled with so much uncertainty and fear. I wanted to have a day of celebration. I wanted to be able to start thinking about this baby as a real person without being afraid I would jinx the whole thing. I want the chance to do what normal pregnant women do - decorate a nursery, buy little toys and books, knit clothes and pick out names. And so, we asked the doctor to secretly write down the sex on a piece of paper that we could look at afterwards in a private moment. Neither of us wanted it blurted out in the room where we couldn't respond in the way we wanted to. After the scan was finished we hurried down to the cafe in the foyer, sat down, and set about opening up the CD case where she'd written on the back of the ultrasound photo. Butterflies were simmering in our stomachs and we decided to count to three before quickly flipping it over. I almost couldn't bare to look. Then, I glanced down, and next to a smiley face drawn in black biro was our revelation, and on reading it our hearts stopped:

We were suddenly having a baby girl...a little daughter...a sister for Max...to love and treasure. And we felt so joyous, so light, and so hopeful that for a little while that day everything else seemed to melt away. What a beautiful, joyous Christmas gift we've been given, and we felt that our darling Max was right there with us.

And so, a healthy baby girl to nurture and grow for what I hope will be the next 20 weeks. We are so delighted to share such a happy piece of news with all of our families and friends.

12 precious weeks

This morning I went for my 12 week scan.

There's a baby in there, despite my greatest fears. It looks healthy and happy. It has a low risk of downs syndrome (1 in 6525). It was jumping about. Two little hands. Two little feet. A perfect profile. It is already practicing swallowing.

It's not the first time we've seen baby. I've been getting fortnightly scans, but they are just brief ones to check the heartbeat, and the pictures aren't worth showing. It's amazing to see its growth from one to the next, though. The baby is growing so rapidly. At the moment it is measuring past its dates. I'm 12 weeks 6 days, and it is measuring 13 weeks 4 days. It's a big baby. A big, strong one, I hope.

Here's what's been causing all the trouble over the last eight weeks (more about that soon):