When I started this pregnancy, I never thought I’d make it this far. Call me negative. Call me naive. But when you’ve been through what I’ve been through, getting to 36 weeks in a pregnancy (let alone a twin pregnancy) is pretty much unforeseeable. It’s like marathons–I know people that have run them, yet I still don’t see how it’s humanly possible.
I think I’d have to run one to even believe that it is even within the realm of possibility.
Even then, I still might not believe it. You see, I don’t doubt my soul or my mind. I am stubborn enough to know that if left to rely on those things I’ll get shit done. But my body has always been another realm to me. I haven’t felt that I can rely on it in…well, maybe ever.
My body has cursed me from a very young age forward. It has done very little predictably in the 31+ years I’ve had it. It was beginning to be that the only predictability was that something unpredictable would happen at the most inopportune time. It’s hard to plan your life around a piss poor streak of luck like that. And the infertility journey…well, that just made it that much worse. I was ready for my body not to respond at first, but I wasn’t ready for the losses and the big failures. I don’t think anyone can be.
So I can’t help but admit that I’m shocked every time I wake up and realize that not only am I still pregnant, but that I’m very pregnant–to the point where they would not stop labor if it happened.
Very few of my dreams involve my current with child state. Given that I wake up every 90-120 minutes these days, most of my dreams are choppy at best and involve things like trying to find a replacement sweatshirt or some sort of car dealership fiasco. And when I wake up and have to reconcile with the fact that my body does not move at it’s normal pace…well, it is simultaneously jarring and victorious.
Despite everything, I have had a relatively decent pregnancy. I can complain, but not too much. Aside from not being able to eat for the first four months and then the rash from hell for two months, I haven’t had anything traumatic. I haven’t been rushed to the hospital multiple times (just the once for the stupid fall). I haven’t been told that I have any grave complications. It is hard to wrap my head around. I have the basic complaints, but I don’t have the normal “my body is cursed” complaints that I usually have. Once you live with that kind of expectation, it’s hard to live without it.
In a nutshell: it’s been quite the opposite of every bodily experience I’ve ever had in my life.
And in the past two weeks, I’ve come to grips with the fact that I owe my body an apology. I’m sure that it will go back to it’s unpredictable ways soon enough. But given everything I’ve thrown at it, my body has responded like a damn champ. I have continuously exceeded expectations throughout the past nine months. If for nothing else than the fact that we’ve made it thus far, I owe my body a bit of a mea culpa.
I wish I could say that this means I wouldn’t doubt it again. I wish I could say that I’ve found some peace about my body. Maybe a bit of that is true, but given my glorious track record of accidents, surgeries, illnesses and general status of being difficult, I think she’ll forgive me for being a bit cautious on that tip. I have no doubt that the minute I hit publish on this post, something will happen to make me change my mind. But I guess that doesn’t betray the best streak of good service I’ve gotten out of this shell for as long as I can recall.
Nevertheless, I owe my body a bit of a toast for having been a warrior thus far. And I’m glad to raise a glass in her honor. We may not always be on the same page, but for the time when I needed it most we were at least in the same book.
Even the most perfectly cursed pair gets it right sometimes.