I am not in great shape. I feel pretty depressed about it all, too. I donÂ’t really know what I thought pregnancy would be like, I suppose I didnÂ’t really have any preconceived notions other than a vague, Hollywood induced hope that it would include walking through leaf-strewn parks with a small bump sticking out and an amber glow cast over my face. I maybe hoped it would be stomach rubbings by people on the Approved Stomach Touching list, and feelings of being so close to the babies every time they moved that a small, maternal smile would appear. I pictured happily buying things for a nursery and being ready for the time when baby would come. Oh, sure, I figured that the end of the pregnancy would be hard, that the weight would be heavy and I would walk like a Sim just before they gave birth, but I never saw some of what IÂ’ve been dealing with.

For starters, I never imagined there would be two. I’ll be honest – I didn’t want twins. I really didn’t. I read a blogger once who spoke of having her twins, and while she loves them madly she spoke of grieving the loss of the specialness that is having one baby. Don’t misunderstand – I love them both and always will. I do not wish the loss of one of them. It’s just an adjustment, and a very big one. It’s easier for me as I have nothing to compare it with, there are two and I’ve never experienced anything else. It’s harder for Angus, who has had two children before and knows the work involved. It doesn’t help when we run into people and family who constantly tell us of the work and exhaustion ahead – is that supposed to be helpful? What, you think you need to be my voice of fucking reality? Of course we’ll cope. Of course we’ll find a way. But I do feel for Angus, as the shock to him is greater than the shock to me.

I figured morning sickness might strike, but I never knew it would feel like 10 weeks of feeling permanently seasick at the slightest smell. I thought there might be worries, but I didnÂ’t suspect IÂ’d have a routine screening show one of the babies at a high risk for DownÂ’s, and then a second screening show an even higher risk. I certainly never saw me having a needle plunged through my abdomen to do a CVS to prove the baby was ok. And now I worry that we didnÂ’t test the other one, and what happens if despite the huge odds that the baby is fine (1:692), the baby (the boy) is born with DownÂ’s?

Most of all I had no idea that one of the babies would pinch off one of my ureters, forcing bladder and kidney infections. I never once imagined me screaming and writhing around on the toilet, or me taking one of one hundred baths in an attempt to ease urine out. I didn’t imagine two pre-term labor scares, complete with steroid shots to “up their chances of survival” and contractions that prove my body was heading down the path to Labor Way. I never pictured the possibility of long stays in SBCU (NICU) for my children.

I didnÂ’t know it got hard to breathe as they got bigger and moved on to my lungs. I didnÂ’t know that my stomach would start to feel tight and ripe, like a huge melon that could split at any moment. I didn't know that as I got nearer to the end it would feel like I had a giant bowling ball perched precariously over my cervix, weighing down heavily. I didnÂ’t know that my girlie parts would swell before they disappeared from sight altogether, I didnÂ’t know that even wiping would become a contortionist challenge. I didnÂ’t know my freckles and moles would all darken, and I didnÂ’t know that what I imagined was the gentle push of a baby inside the stomach was really more of a ringing whack that would have me doubled over with nausea each time they did it.

I didnÂ’t know anything, I think.

I’m still carrying small, and have gained about 26 pounds. My next scan is on Tuesday next week, where hopefully the babies weigh about 4 pounds each. But there are weeks to go still, and I’ll be honest-I wonder how I’ll ever get my body back to where it was. I’m kicking myself for not valuing how I used to look more. I feel enormous, just getting out of bed is a monumental task that takes the coordinated use of elbows, rolling, and defying physics to get up. I don’t feel cute and pregnant. I just feel clumsy, uncoordinated. I bump into things all the time and if I whack into anything with my stomach – which happens often – I have to wait a moment for nausea to subside (luckily the Lemonheads come equipped with their own airbags, so they’re not in danger.) Yes, I know that this is all for the benefit of the babies, I am not that selfish, and I know that "feeling attractive" is not remotely important in the big scheme of things. But it all feels wildly out of control, and even more than that, I am hosting my babies in a warehouse that is far from medically sound, my warehouse is riddled with infectious asbestos and I hate knowing that I can't even pull off the "nurturing uterus" side of things very well.

None of this is even taking into account the incredible emotional roller coaster weÂ’ve had with family and loved ones, which I've been through so many times before I don't want to go into again now.

There is a very English saying – “Mustn’t grumble”. It’s true there is a stereotype that the English, they aren’t a complaining lot, that in general they don’t revel a lot of their cards. In general, I have found that it’s an accurate description-in general, the English really don’t complain much, they just get on with things. I feel I should be complying with this as well. Mustn’t grumble. I chose this. I wanted to have a family. I fucked everything up. I have infections because I wanted this. I didn’t want infections, that’s for sure. But yes, I wanted a baby.

I want to feel like this is just a new chapter in life. That travel doesnÂ’t stop (I accept that travel will be different for a while, but I donÂ’t accept that it will stop altogether). That laughter and happiness arenÂ’t gone. That there are moments of incalculable bliss and love. That I will be part of a family, with all of its joy and stress and love and noise and laundry and gardens and hope. Maybe it's true what I've seen in the comments-it will all feel so much better when they're here, when I have them.

But what if it doesn't?

I feel exhausted. I feel worn out. My insides are fucked up, my arm has a large cyst on it from one of IV cannulas gone wrong (which will get absorbed by my body at some point, but which currently hurts like hell), and I feel so generally uncomfortable in ways I could never have anticipated. I feel like I will never be considered attractive again. I feel emotionally empty. I feel lonely and I am deeply craving reassurance and affection of the "crashing waves, swelling violins" variety, and fuck anyone who tries to tell me romantic love stops being so giddy because it doesn't have to. I feel like I am letting the Lemonheads down – they chose me, and in return I give them a shoddy system in which they're expected to incubate.

I guess I just feel blue.

I didn't know that pregnant women get the blues.

And I’m closing comments because I can see it now – the comments of being ungrateful, the “you asked for this”, the "your infertility is your choice", the “you don’t deserve them” slants. Maybe it’s true, I don’t deserve them. But what’s even more true is sometimes (like today) I feel they don’t deserve me. They deserve better. Mostly I'm just closing them because I just need to get this off my chest. I know this reads as one big self-pity party, but I need to say just once how this is one million times harder than I thought it would be, that I want so much for everything to be ok but I can't see it for myself right now.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:18 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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