Recently, all I can think about is losing the baby. I'm afraid to move. I'm afraid to sneeze. I'm afraid to exercise. Every time I have a little discharge or a cramp or even a bad thought, it's like I rush to the bathroom to check if I'm bleeding.
NOTHING is wrong. It's in my brain.
Then I open up my browser at work, only to find the headline that Bethenny Frankel just came out that she suffered a miscarriage. It never occurs to me that she's over 40, and that she had complications with Brynn's delivery...only that huge M word, flashing on my screen.
Andy went to see the doctor yesterday, and the doctor mentioned to him (after referring to him as "the sharp shooter" and giving him a high five...) "Well, after 13 weeks you can get REALLY excited!"
Stop talking about it, already!
Women with PCOS, who are taking metformin through their pregnancy drop their miscarriage rate from 58% to 11%. I just have all these images of fast forwarding nine months and having Lauren and Kari there with their bouncing babies, and I'm just avoiding them at all costs because I lost mine and we can't get it back together again.
Okay, Libbie. Enough.
Last night I puked. For the second or third time since finding out. It was oddly reassuring, actually. I was concerned that I was nauseous, but I could've been MORE nauseous. So last night it just HIT me, and then just that fast I was fine. Almost like SB was going- "It's okay, mom! I'm here!"
My handsome husband is so amazing to me. He still thinks I'm beautiful. :) He got me water last night as I was bent over the bowl. Afterwards I laid in bed and prayed for our baby and prayed for my husband and for our little family. I'm blessed beyond reason.