Pregnant, Preeclamptic, and Positive

For the past couple of weeks, I have become convinced that other smiling, happy third trimester pregnant women must be the best fakers in the world because for me, it is complete and utter misery.  At my recent thirty-one week appointment, however, my doctor informed me that my inflated feet, racing heart, severe headaches, and spotty vision is not the norm for most pregnant people. I am one of the lucky five percent of women who are diagnosed with preeclampsia. I usually strive to be unique, but this is the one time I wish I could be normal.

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Mother’s Intuition Be Damned

For the last nineteen and a half weeks, I thought I was having a son.  I envisioned a pudgy, blonde-haired boy with my husband’s watchful blue eyes, inquisitive nature, and even temperament; as such, I have referred to the tiny child in my stomach as “he” during months leading up to the ultrasound appointment when the gender would finally be revealed. Against Doug’s wishes, I had even picked out a first name for my future son. Inspired by my husband’s profession and my love of slightly quirky baby names, I decided that my golden haired boy would be named Lennox, Nox for short.

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My Toothbrush Is My Nemesis: Tales of the First Trimester

When I envisioned getting pregnant, I pictured a my adorable little baby bump clad in cute maternity clothes, glowing skin, and of course, gliding across the earth on pure unadulterated happiness.  I would work out everyday, eat healthy foods, and spread my sunshine to everyone I encountered.  

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My Body Is a Shared Space

I made a rule about a year ago that I would not take a pregnancy test until I was at least a week late because excitement of testing and subsequent disappointment of having a negative result was too emotionally devastating.  I broke the rule last night because I was supposed to go out for drinks with some friends in a post-celebration of my husband and my recent birthdays.  I had taken Clomid during the beginning of the month, but my gynaecologist told me that she didn't think it address my undiagnosed infertility issue as I menstruated regularly.

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One Day Late

My menstrual cycle was one day late.

Ten years ago, this statement would have filled me with dread.  It would have been spoken, not written, and hushed tones to a close confidant.  The nineteen-year-old version of myself would have gone to bed with nightmares of stretch marks, fussy babies, and dirty diapers.   

Fast forward ten years.

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