I am having a very easy pregnancy. Memories of my ten weeks of nausea and vomiting hell are fading fast. I have no pelvic or back pain, no tiredness or irritability, no memory loss worth mentioning. My little daughter, A, reassures me that all is well every time I ask her. I am happy. The agony of the last three years has been for something.
What I mean is, I hope it has been for something. I have been given the luxury of hope, I have even been handed the gift of expectation. I hope and expect to hug and kiss A in a few short months. I can hardly believe it. But already I can feel the softness of her skin, I can touch her tiny little baby hands, I can smell her hair, I can feel the letdown as she feeds. We are all expecting. DS is already reorganising his life to fit her in, he never forgets about her. Every piece of his future contains a space for her.
If we lost her, I would die. I am sure of it.
Update: No, this is not a suicide wish. “Die” is meant in a figurative sense, “die inside” if you will. Like before only much, much worse.