The sentence I have probably uttered the most this pregnancy is "if I get that far." I say it after answering every question (from people who know me and our story) along the lines of when I am due, or when I will be finishing work. And, considering they know what happened last time, they are always really taken aback and reply "what do you mean?" or "Of course you will get that far" or my personal favorite "you'll be fine this time!" All well meant, of course, and by writing this I am not moaning about or criticising any of that. It is just an observation that has surprised me. The truth is, no-body knows that we will be fine this time, no-body can say for sure that I won't deliver early. My only experience of pregnancy is pre-term labour, and the death of my son. So please forgive me for being- not fatalistic, but realistic. It's my pregnancy-version ofknocking on wood I guess.
I wasn't expecting these reactions though. I suppose I should have. The thought of one baby dying was too much for a lot of people to contemplate, so to even allude to the fact it could possibly happen again is not something people want to have to deal with. I get it. But, I do have to deal with it. I can't stick my head in the sand and tell myself everything will be fine. Every time my baby kicks, I do not simply feel reassured that he or she is OK, I am reminded of how strong they are, of how strong Bertie was, and how my body let us down. How, he wasn't strong enough for that. I am, in all truthfulness, not living in fear of history repeating. However, I am no longer naive and no can longer assume that I will trot into the labour ward a day after my due date and achieve my perfect-totally-planned-out-in-advance-birth. I'm taking it a week at a time, sometimes a day. Every night I pray my thanks to God for another day with Grub, and ask for His protection over us both. My big goal is 30 weeks. At 30 weeks there's a good chance they'll survive, unscathed. That seed was planted after Bertie died, when we (our family) all started taking about how if he'd just stayed in another month or so, things could have been so different. So, 30 weeks it is. Then I will maybe stop knocking on wood. 40 weeks just seems incomprehensible to me right now.