I don’t know if it’s because I had a missed miscarriage before, but now that I’m in the second trimester, I spend more time every day than I’d like to admit paralyzed with terror that I’m going to lose this baby. Keep in mind that I have no physical symptoms that would lead any reasonable person to believe this. Not two weeks ago I was at the doctor listening to SchuFetus’s little heartbeat through the Doppler. Since that time I have gotten bigger–somehow I get bigger every day. At night before I go to sleep I even feel a little weirdness in my belly that could very well be the babby moving around.
It doesn’t matter that the chance of having a second-trimester miscarriage is like 1 percent, smaller if the babby does not have any problems on Chromosome 18 or 13 (I had a full DNA workup done; it doesn’t). I’m just a naturally anxious person (REALLY?) and so every day I’m, like, terrified that something has gone horribly awry with this creature that I desperately want to grow big, come out and commence ruining my life (and I will commence the countdown to when she’s old enough to ride the Tower of Terror and the Harry Potter ride).
As anyone who’s had a babby, been pregnant or watched someone be pregnant knows, the “magical” second trimester is full of a lot of disgusting surprises. The intestinal regularity of an 85-year-old on the Atkins diet. The bladder continence of a 19-year-old Golden Retriever. A chestal region that looks like two over-inflated water balloons being strangled by angry blue wires. A back that feels like it’s being ripped apart, migrating into a pubic bone that feels like it’s being ripped apart. Bursting into uncontrollable sobs at reruns of Clarissa Explains It All. And, of course, looking like a big giant wide-load who is not yet obviously pregnant-looking. But while my books speak of “anxiety,” none of them prepared me for the all-encompassing and totally irrational terror.