Twelve Weeks

Last Monday I had my first twelve week scan.

I say first twelve week scan for a reason.

There I was, on the table, jelly smeared over the lower part of my stomach, my mum sat next to me, the sonographer waving her scanner thing over me.

And then I saw it. My baby.

Even as I write it, tingles shoot through me, a wave of pride, of emotion, of overwhelming protection, of realisation.

There it was, arms and legs wriggling like mad (clearly taking after J*).

I grabbed my mum's hand, overwhelmed, tears prickling my eyes. It was so clear, so alive.

The sonographer's words blurred with the image as I tried to focus - that she couldn't do any of the other tests now at this early stage.

Alarm bells drilled through my skull. Early stage?

She measured the baby - and again - 10.5 days old. My heart sank. My tears turned sour, but I smiled uncomfortably and thanked her, disappointment consuming me.

Looking back on it, having hit finally my twelfth week yesterday, the way I felt following my scan seems petty. But that would be betraying myself. If I'd have written back then (such a long time since my last post, absorbed with terrible morning sickness, a cold that floored me and then a mounting workload that ensured it invaded every waking minute for the past 10 days) then I would have seen the legacy the news left. Another 1.5 weeks of all-consuming sickness. Another 1.5 weeks of secrecy, of, basically with trying not to sound hideously melodramatic but failing dismally, misery.

Now my sickness has started to calm during the day, eased by the constant grazing of a variety of crackers, cereal, bread, beans and potatoes (yup, that pretty much summarises my diet for the past week). In the evening the tide comes in, every wave that little bit stronger, until I go to bed often gipping, often sickness (and potato) rising to the top of my throat, acid-burning. I lie awake, still, trying not to move, trying to lay the beast to rest, to calm it. Even when I wake in the night I feel it still, stirring.

And I do wake in the night. Often. Probably about every 1 - 2 hours. I raise automatically, gone are the days where I would try and ignore my insistent bladder, now I just obey its commands, mechanically, without any unwillingness.

Looking back over these twelve weeks - or I guess really two months - I have not enjoyed any aspect of my first trimester. I have been lonely, a recluse, a shadow of myself. I have not recognised myself, my actions, my conversation. I have felt so low I couldn't imagine being pulled out of this state of self pity, and sometimes couldn't even let myself. To put it lightly, I have not been happy.

I have been consumed by sickness, my body has seen its muscles tumble undone, my work, my control dissolving as I stand powerless. My changing shape, my back fat, my hips, my stomach, my breasts, all without my control, my years of work, of effort, of watching what I eat, of exercising, riddled with self consciousness. All undone.

I haven't been out on a social activity for weeks. When J is home at a weekend, we are reluctant to do anything but indulge in spending time together with Newf (in between my cat-naps, and as anyone who's ever had a cat knows, a cat nap is never quite as delicate and short as it implies). During the week, I am exhausted by the time I have finished work, with my stomach beginning to churn like a vicious wash cycle (these last days, between 8pm and 10pm anyway).

And my dance. I miss my poleing so terribly I dream through sequences, I run through those first classes when I'll return, awkward, with an enormous baby belly and no strength in my neglected limbs, unable to achieve the moves I worked so hard for. I couldn't bear to enter the class like that. I don't think I could cope. And I can't imagine J or the poor baby wanting to endure my collapsed figure's routines around the pole in the house either.

I watched my beloved Amy's routine on Friday, overwhelmed and so incredibly proud, a beautiful, intense, continuously, fluid, seemingly effortless routine (I say seemingly because I know how she felt the next day!), but it infected my sleep with dreams of dancing, continuously, sometimes back before I knew I was pregnant, one last memorable time with my sister on Christmas Eve, hours and hours of dance, and then some taunting me, mocking me, returning to a class where I don't know anyone, where I am unable to perform moves my body used to map out so well. I was never graceful nor a particularly talented dancer, but I danced for strength, for control, for a love that I had no idea the full intensity of until it was taken away from me. Until I took it away from me.

Would I have it any other way? Would I have done things differently if I'd have known the selfishness of my want, my need would make me bitter and resentful? I am ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of my selfishness and my resentment. I am ashamed of my lack of perspective and my understanding that this won't be forever.

I am ashamed of my seeming lack of respect for my baby - no longer a foetus, not now, not now, not now I've seen you, oh but I do adore you so much, please forgive me for this, because I need to be forgiven, I've only seen the briefest of glimpses of you yet, you've made no appearance on my figure, you are still such a secret, such a thing I have trouble to comprehend.

I desperately wanted this baby. I do desperately want this baby. After seeing it, it became so real. I have the picture by my desk, I take it to bed. The meaning has faded out of the picture now, it isn't the wonderful realisation it was before, I am used to looking at the outline of my baby, of tracing its head, its tiny arms, its body. We used to discuss that if something had turned up through the blood tests that I am yet to have then we would discuss whether to keep it. Back then, before I thought we had a choice, before the baby became real, before the baby was just an idea, connected in some way to my sickness and my exhaustion but with no real link, no physical cord, no dots joined together. Now there is no choice. Now it is just the fierce protection of my baby, and the hating myself for not giving myself up in the way I would desperately want to, in the way I assumed I would, to pregnancy, to growing our baby.

Last night I lay awake day dreaming of romantic meals with a glass of champagne, a beautiful dress, a lovely hotel, J and me, together. All such a world away from my life at the moment. Alcohol is an abhorrent thought, a meal beyond anything with basically the complete genetic makeup of a potato makes me feel a little queasy just considering it. A hotel room, where we might drink, and sit up, and talk, I might feel pretty, not a mass of ever multiplying fat cells.

Last weekend J and I picked up a Mothercare and Boots Baby catalogue. It was bliss - we indulged in planning a nursery, choosing items, discussing 'travel systems' (something I'm definitely leaving to him to research), chatting about our baby. I had focus then, in talking, I could lose myself in the realisation of our baby. But only with him. Only when he's beside me, I realise that we're doing this together, that we're apart because we're going to have the most wonderful life when our baby comes. Together. Not being apart any more. The months stretch out before me, and I lose myself in a mess of week days.

So, twelve weeks. On Tuesday I have my second twelve week scan. Then I should be able to finally begin to tell those close to me who I haven't yet been able to tell. Then I will enter my second trimester fully, sincerely, finally. Finally.

*As my partner does play a fairly hefty role in many of my posts, I've decided after years of blogging to raise him from partner status to his initial. I haven't told him, but I imagine he'll be fairly uninterested in his increased status. Either that or he might be a little bit perturbed to why its only happened now.