I feel a sense of relief. I’ve reached 34 weeks and I have a perfectly healthy baby in here. I had an ultrasound – a biophysical profile – on Friday afternoon. I can’t believe how lucky I am to visit with her so often. I watched her curl and uncurl her hands, kick her feet, turn and move, practice breathing… it’s all quite miraculous. She’s perfect.
After being told I’d have a minuscule chance of getting pregnant, I got pregnant. I didn’t make this up in my head or blow out the facts, I sat across from more than one board certified fertility specialist who told me my best chance of conceiving a child was with ICSI. Honestly, it doesn’t matter how I got pregnant, but there is this sense of miracle that I can’t deny.
The miracle part continues when I think of how healthy I am. I’m not talking abut my blood pressure, I’m talking about my brain. It’s been six and a half months – 197 days – without medication. I prepared for this intensely – as if I was training for a marathon. I switched tried-and-true medication; I visited therapists; I journaled; I prayed. I gave myself the gift of time, of years with no active symptoms. Even so, I didn’t quite believe I could do it. And now, I’m in the clear as far as this fetus is concerned. I’ve done it; I am healthy. My brain is healthy.
It’s quite a good feeling. Healthy baby, healthy mom, healthy family. I’m in Chicago this week, and when I return I’m in the green as far as delivery goes. We could be welcoming C^3 at any point. And once again, this shit just got real.