Why is my kid wetting the bed? Anxiety? Night Terrors? Or just too much milk? Who knows? Some people call it the Twilight Zone. I call it.... The WET SPOT.
“MUMMYYYYYYYYYYYY.”
There’s a tone to the cry that cuts through my sleep and I’m already out of bed, stumbling towards my kid before my eyes are even open.
“I had an acci- Mummy I peed… Mummy it’s all wet… it just came out…” I can hear little sobs punctuate each word.
With my first full-term pregnancy the minutes stretched into languid hours and I ached with anticipation to be able to say ‘I’m 20 weeks’ or ‘I’m 7 months.’ I used to squeak a few extra days into it if I was asked how far along I was, wondering if I’d get caught for saying ‘I’m 21 weeks’ when I was really only 20 weeks and 3 days.
“It’ll be different in your second pregnancy. It’ll fly by.”
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder has managed to carve some pretty intricate logic-loopholes as it’s etched its path through my life. A leftover relic from fertility issues, miscarriages and separation, it’s cut me deeply. Now that I’m finally pregnant and safely into my second trimester I want to feel unbridled joy, but sometimes I feel terror and paralytic trepidation instead.
“So, I’m going to need you to go ahead and give me a semen sample.”
Ok. No. That’s not right.
What about—
“So the thing is, if I’m going to go and get my reproductive situation assessed for the future… then… maybe we should talk about the future… and when that might start.”
Not bad. A little Jerry McGuire-ish, but still down to earth. Was it maybe a little too clinical?
Whether you reconcile or go your separate ways, at some point during the rollercoaster ride of separation, you start asking yourself terrifying questions.
For kicks.
Here’s a sampler: “What if I never have kids again?” or “What if I die alone, while my kid is with her dad, and no one discovers my body for days?”
Hello, my name is Kat, and I have my own Crazy-Making Inner Monologue.
You’re going for a regular ultrasound check up in your first or second trimester, and you find out that your baby has stopped growing.
Your world shatters in less than a moment. Your life slams on the brakes. Your heart will never be the same. And it’s just the beginning.
Not only have you just found out that you have lost your child, but you also have to figure out the most upsetting thing in the world: how you’re going to get it out of you.
Everyone seems to gloss over that, and I’m not sure why.
I’ve never been ashamed or quiet about my grab bag of neuroses. I don’t exactly sport them like club scout badges, but at the same time I find the human brain fascinating, and ‘normalcy’ somewhat like the Loch Ness monster: keep looking for it people, and good luck with that.
I have an appointment with a new fertility doctor next week and every time I think about it, I feel sick. She’s got a great reputation and she specializes in multiple losses. That should make me feel pretty good, right?
