6w6d

It seems cliche to say "What a difference a year makes" but really, what a difference a year makes.  Last December, we were preparing for our an adoption (and like all three of the ones that came into our lives, it didn't go through) and I, date wise, one year ago had my TAC placed.  The following Wednesday (since Dec 5 fell on a Monday), I was on my way home from Chicago.  Reading back over those entries, it's even more of a shock to be sitting here, pregnant. 

While I looked back over last December's entry, I was caught off guard by my Winter Solstice post, in which I talk about birth trauma and my own feelings.

Me: You sound as though you want to try and have more children.
Peter: And you sound as though you want to try and never have more.
I have to admit. The comment struck me off guard. I couldnt really speak. We had to part ways anyway- he needed to go to work and I needed to get back home to finish up. But I didnt go home. I found myself driving the longest way home that I could think of (thanks GPS), through tree covered, windy streets, as rain pelted the windshield, the windows open so the wind could rip through my hair. Chill the tears that refused to cry. Was he right? Do I never want to have more children?
The truth of it is that my pregnancies and births have been awful. They've been traumatic. They've been horrific. The only beauty from my four labors were that I was able to hold 5 beautiful children afterwards. But even that is marred with death, fear, and intervention. Until last night, I dont think that I've ever said the words "I had traumatic births", "I'm afraid of being pregnant and having another baby", "I havent let go of the stress and the hurt". And, as I said it and I cried for that woman- that naive, innocent woman who lost her first baby to miscarriage... that excited woman who finally got pregnant- and with twins no doubt!- who had the notion and dreams of "natural" homebirth ripped from her grasp... that hopeful woman who prayed and lost again and again... that terrified but trusting woman who begged for just.one.more.day for the two lives she tried so desperately to hold inside- as I wept for her and mourned for all that she lost and the wounds that cut her so deeply that she wasnt healed years (and in one case, over a decade) later, I took it in. It's not a "she"- it's "me". That woman is me. That hurt, that pain- it's mine. I own it... I believed in birth- and I still do. Yet, I dont believe in my birth... in my ability to birth...What an awful things... To be trained in how to help women give birth naturally... To believe that birth is beautiful... To hate your own body and your own inability...
And the longest, darkest night of the year became mine.
And wounds became scars.
And the anger, the pain, the loss of what I'd dreamed of and hoped for in birth became acceptance of what I have left. 
It finally was clear that the choice is to accept what I have and to release what I dont... what I can never have... and to choose to be whole. To choose to let the wounds heal and become scars of where I've been... But not of who I am.
I cried. I wept. I was angry and hurt and afraid. I lamented the fact that I'll never have a normal birth experience... that I'll never give birth with a midwife at my side, with a doula holding my hand, with Peter catching our baby as he or she is born at home... It's gone. It's a choice that was robbed from me. It's a gift ungiven, a thing I am incapable of.
And, in those tears, I accepted it. I accepted that the only birth experience now available to me is a clinical, surgical one. That, if I am lucky enough to beat the 'infertility' odds and conceive a child and carry it beyond the first trimester, then the TAC will provide me with the ability to carry to term- something I couldnt do without it- and that I will have a surgical delivery, attended by a team of obstetricians, and with Peter holding my hand. I accepted that there will never be a surprise due date (because I'll schedule a cesarean) and there will never be a natural, drug fee labor (because I'll have a spinal for the surgery). 
The darkest night of the year gives way to the birth of the sun.
Reading the words that I wrote a little less than a year ago, in light of a new pregnancy, is both chilling and a positive reminder that this journey is a true, unexpected journey and a wave of hope for a different future.  A ray of sunlight, a beam of faith.  It's a choice that I have.  In accepting the good and the bad, we make a choice for the moment.  This moment, at 6w6d, I am at peace and am happy, and am hopeful that the journey ahead will be beautiful and treasured, regardless of how it ends or when it ends. 

***
Apparently, Daniel Craig was on vacation last night in my dreams.  He and I have been spending a lot of my dream time together this pregnancy (as usual) but he was usurped last night by a handsome Israeli actor, Oded Fehr.  (He shares a birthday with Alexander, so he already has a one up on most guys!)  He's also got a great smile!

Another thing of the past recently (although I hope DC was just on dream vaca! Please, not a thing of the past!) is my fish for breakfast!  (To correct, I wasn't eating lox, I was eating smoked wild salmon).  For something that was as vital to air in the first few weeks, I'm now unable to look at the pink flesh without wanting to hang my head in the nearest wastebasket.  What replaced it you asked?  Freaking Lucky Charms.  I'm not kidding.  I had another bowl this morning!  Sick and nauseous, and what sounds good???  Lucky freaking Charms.  But hey.  If this pregnancy is on the Bobby and Maya food path, it'll only last for 2 weeks and then we'll be on to something else.  (Says the girl who is eating a fair amount of the McDonald's fries she orders for the kids when they play at the playland.  Fries?  I hate fries on principle alone!  And now I'm eating them...  Ugh...)

All in all, as week 6 winds down, I'm feeling good.  Running strong.  Quasi energetic.  On that note?  I'd better get back to my Wednesday housework!