On December 17th, I discovered that I had accidentally gotten knocked up. Yeah, like some fifteen-year-old or some crack whore. I had no idea how to write about such an unfair and ridiculous event, so I wrote nothing at all.
The experience has been one of very complex emotions, with an awful lot of guilt. Because I didn't plan it. Because there wasn't the same hope and anticipation leading up to the discovery, because the little embryo wasn't cherished with all the love in the world from day one. And perhaps because of that hefty dose of guilt, all along, I've been thinking I deserved to miscarry. I'm sure at least one Anonymous is thinking the same thing.
But I've also been so happy, as the reality began to sink in, bit by bit.
I am about seven weeks today. Yesterday I started spotting. Today the nausea that's been constant for the past week is gone, abruptly and completely. I think about undercooked eggs served in a dirty ashtray with a side of cold bacon grease...nothing. Instead of feeling exhausted as I have for the past week, I feel practically sprightly.
I've been thinking about the fact that when I called my OB's office to make an appointment, the scheduler didn't even congratulate me. It's like she knew this was just an absurd little interval. Like she knew I didn't deserve this little life.