60

It recently occurred to me I have now spent a little over 60 weeks of my life pregnant - yet I have no baby at home to show for it, and a huge broken heart and shattered soul instead.

I am just days off being 20 weeks in to this pregnancy; the half way point.

I remember this stage of the pregnancy with Hope, and proudly exclaiming that there was 20 weeks down, and only 20 to go. I couldn't believe how fast it was all going by and how I would soon have my beautiful baby in my arms.

Time is standing still these days and now I really can't believe I still have 20 weeks to go. And 20 weeks to go until what? I still don't understand how this is possibly going to work out. You mean, this baby might actually emerge from my body alive? I don't get it.

Friends who have just given birth say to me they can't wait for me to join them in a few months to share the experience with me. Different friends said that to me at various points of the pregnancy with Hope, yet I never got to share anything with them. They are off living in their own happy bubble lives where nine months always ends in happily ever after. This pain and horror that I got as a booby prize at the end of my nine months is mine and mine alone. There aren't too many I can share this with, Simon aside.

All I know from almost 41 weeks of pregnancy is death. I don't know how else it can work out, even though I see it everywhere, every day, all around me. Even though that's how it worked for my mum, Simon's mum and all four of our grandmothers. In my fucked up little universe, nine months ends in death and despair. So if that's the case, I suppose I better get planning this little boy's funeral now. Right?

But of course I am not planning a funeral. I am planning on bringing this boy home, and raising him until I am old, frail and grey. Then he will bury me. And don't worry, each time I say or think that, I keep my new blogging friend Mirne in the back of my mind, and I hope she doesn't mind that I mention her here, but this is exactly what she thought she was going to do when she bought her son home, after losing her first born daughter as well. I am under no illusions there are any guarantees here. The universe is still a scary and unsecure place. Bad shit can still happen to good people - and sometimes it happens twice.

I have been out shopping this week and while I found it made me physically ill the first time I picked up a little blue outfit, the following day I was like a woman possessed and could not be stopped. I needed someone to confiscate my credit card - and fast.

I didn't buy too many clothes for Hope. A few things in white, green and yellow, as we did not know her sex so I wanted to wait so I could dive right in to the pink or blue stuff. Except then she died. She was buried in an aqua onesie, a yellow wrap and a white hat. This is all we had and I could not bring myself to go and buy one special burial outfit for her, even though this is what the funeral home had suggested, as if they thought it was cruel we had chosen to bury her in something so plain, simple and particularly un-girly. We took that outfit to the hospital to dress her in after birth, not knowing of course this would be all she would ever wear, and this is how we wanted her left.

Now with this pregnancy, things are obviously very different. I know the gender, so I can really get stuck in to stocking up the wardrobe. And there is plenty of cute blue stuff out there to buy.

But I only need one outfit to bury him in, I keep telling myself. But I try my best to block those thoughts out, and have some sort of faith, that this will indeed work out.

I know if I didn't buy him anything, I would just end up regretting it. After all, everyone keeps telling me that I must enjoy this time and I must make the most of it, you know, just like I did last time with Hope, because you know, this baby deserves that from me, at the very least. Because it is stupid to think I might be jinxing myself, as if whether I buy things or not will have no bearing on whether he actually lives or dies. And I suppose I need to celebrate his aliveness now. Buy him things now, while I can, while there might still be a use for them. Even though at this point I know he does not need much more than his birthday suit.

For my boy, he is alive and well right now. I can feel him, this very moment. He kicks and squirms and makes his presence very well known to me. If I lie still enough, I can even see him move around in there. Incredible. And I watched his ultrasound DVD again last night, just to make sure. Just to confirm this is not all in my head, that I am growing another baby. That I am doing this again. And that with any luck in 20 or so weeks, he will be here, alive and in my arms.

It is lucky in a way that I am someone who DOES enjoy pregnancy. I am not complaining I have had to spend 60 weeks of my life pregnant, I am just sad that at this point I don't have anything tangible to show for it. I LOVED my 40 and a bit weeks with Hope, and while I am struggling to find as much enjoyment in this gestation for obvious reasons, I am still finding moments of happiness. Pregnancy comes easy to me. I have been reasonably well and fit. There have been a few niggling side effects that come with any pregnancy, but that is all part of the fun of growing babies. It is nothing I would complain about per say. It is just par for the course.

Sometimes I do feel like an elephant though, having to be pregnant all this time to get a baby I can keep. Their gestation period is 22 months, and while my combined pregnancy wont be quite that long, when/if this baby is born (alive) in November, it will be almost exactly 24 months since Hope was conceived.

Two years is not such a long time to wait, I know. People struggle through years of infertility and painful and costly IVF procedures, and as so many like to remind me, I am young - there are many more good years ahead of me to make babies. But it is a long time when most people only have to wait nine months. And when that is all I should have had to wait. I shouldn't be doing this again. I should be raising an 11 month old with the prospect of another baby a long way off in my future. I should have a daughter. I shouldn't be mourning a daughter. I should not be pregnant. I should not be growing a son.

But it is what it is. I'm one pregnancy down, and half way in to a new one. Just still hoping like crazy that I end up on the right side of statistics this time. That after 80 weeks of two pregnancies with six months in between, I will get to smile again. Is that too much to ask?