and you are

whatever a moon has always meant and
whatever a sun will always sing
is you.

feels like fall

For the first time ever I am happy that it is finally cold outside. Much more comfortable for me in my present condition. I had a dr's appointment on Friday, at which I cried a lot but it was very helpful and I got a mental health referral which I never would have thought was something I'd be pleased about but I am. Still just getting through work one day at a time but I am relieved by knowing now that my doctor can approve my maternity leave as soon as it becomes necessary. So, possibly sooner than later. One thing that really threw me off however was that the hospital still refers to me by my old name. It's quite jarring, especially with how emotional I am already. I had finally gotten my new insurance card (after more than a year!) so I was expecting it to finally all be changed over at the hospital when I arrived this time, but alas, it was not so, which did not help at all to deter the crying. I did get someone to make a note on my file though, so maybe next time? Shan't get my hopes up, I'll just be better braced for it next time. Though if anyone calls me anything but Vera while I am trying to give birth I will seriously lose. my. shit.

Phil is taking good care of me and I am grateful. I know he is in this for the long haul, because he told me so, but also because that is the kind of person he is. We've always been good about splitting up household chores, but now he also has been taking on more dinners as well, which is very helpful.

One day at a time, as usual. Looking forward very much to Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then baby. I hope I will be able to just be happy, when he comes. As my doctor said, it's not fair that I keep suffering for what other people did. I should be able to just be happy. I already care so much more for my baby, have done so much more to nurture and protect him in these last six months than my parents ever did for me. The thought of it is hurtful and sharp. Every time I talk to him, I tear up. I think it's a combination of hardly being able to believe that he's going to really be mine, and a sense of loss over what I've never had, what no one ever felt for me. I just hope that whenever I see his little face, the joy will outweigh the pain. For both of our sakes.

whoever you want to be

silent

I do not talk much. I am thinking every day about your tiny body, about the delicate chemistry of your brain. I wonder what you will be like, about the depths of your psyche, the unknown places of your soul. I feel guilty, because I should be talking to you, should be laughing and singing and telling you stories so that you will remember my voice and will know that you are welcome here and will think that this is a cool place to live. All the books say so. They say I should talk. I want to. But most of the time all I can seem to do is cradle your temporary home in my two hands and try not to cry. I am quiet because I am afraid, and I don't want you to know. But I'm sure that you know. Your future flashes through my mind by day and my own past haunts my dreams by night. Carrying you this far is the most difficult and frightening thing I have ever done. Even steel has it's breaking point, and I am far less than that.

-----

I'm trying. My own voice is loud in my ears, and startles me, alone in the car. Other times I rub my belly and send loving thoughts and hope that it counts for something. My biggest concern is mental health. I want him to be sound, smart, capable, courageous. I tell myself there's no reason why we shouldn't all three of us be diliriously happy, deliciously whole. But I worry still. Standing at a crossroads again, and not knowing where we will live, what we will do. I want Phil to be happy, and I want to be happy, and I hope we can achieve that at the same time, in the same life, together. I hope so for our baby's sake and for our own sakes, too. I need to do some research, get some things figured out, ease my anxiety somehow, self-reflect. But work saps my mental energy and by the time I get home I feel like there is little or nothing left. We need the money just to get by, for now and for later, but I am so miserable going to work every day, and there are still four months to go. I'm not sure what to do.

Will you send us some loving thoughts? It must count for something.

remembrance

Not long ago I wondered if I would ever be able to carry a baby to term. I still don't know, not yet. It looks like I probably can. I am hopeful. I am afraid of losing my baby, and I am afraid too of what happens after he makes it here in one piece. But I am thankful for this experience, for the movements I feel even as I type this, that I was unsure if I would ever be allowed to know. Two losses under my belt, and some have suffered even more. But losses or no, it does not make you better, or bigger, or smaller, or less than anyone else. It is a thing that happens, that has happened before. You let it break you, or you carry on, just like anything else.

It’s weird to think that joy and grief can exist in a person at the same time but they can, and one doesn’t cancel out the other. - from Apache & Honeysuckle

ka-ra-te

I seem to be harboring a tiny ninja. It is highly distracting/enjoyable.