Today I am 23 weeks and 6 days. The exact gestational age of when I delivered Isaac.
I’ve spent most of my morning watching skillshare classes and researching on how to start this blog to take my mind off of this monumental moment. I have had first breakfast and second breakfast. I ate a slice of leftover pizza (with crispy kale, capers, soppressata, and pickled jalapenos). I’m thinking a second slice is in order.
I have been anticipating this day, with extreme anxiety, since the moment I found out that I was pregnant again. Although I knew in the back of mind that having a cerclage increased my chances of surpassing this milestone, it still did not ease my distress and the emotional ties I had to that moment in my life.
What’s even more unnerving is that I delivered Isaac on Monday, the day after Mother’s Day last year, and I am sitting here on my couch at 23 weeks and 6 days, on a rainy Monday afternoon in March. No spotting. No contractions. No dilation. Just the sound of a clock vigorously ticking away at my day, and a very active baby rolling around underneath my skin.
It’s so surreal.
It feels like an ordinary day, but at the same time it’s not. The best way to describe the feeling of “crossing over” is like being in a state with two time zones and the anti climatic change that occurs when you move forward in time. I know that it is a meaningful moment, but the world outside has not acknowledged this moment in any grand or mystical way.
I should be relieved. I should be exhaling. Yet, here I sit, holding my breath. If you have experienced child loss in some form, you know what I am talking about. You know why all the air is still trapped in your lungs. Yes, I have been able to kill off a little bit of the tension, but there is still more, holding my gladness hostage.