Well, that was quite a trip, little one.
It’s a strange situation, to be sure. When you have felt a little life growing, stretching and kicking, you come to depend on it. And when it’s growing in the belly of someone who lays next to you at night, you come to depend on them, you ride their emotional train. Every time they exclaim about a big kick, you get a little warm feeling.
And when they say they have felt nothing for 2 days, you panic.
I pride myself on being a pretty optimistic sort. I know that wasn’t always the case. Those of you who knew be way back will recall my bouts of sadness and hopelessness. But I have been working hard at it for a few years now, and I genuinely believe that I am getting good at it. Good things have been happening to me, and it is in no small part due to the fact that I believe that good things will happen.
I always work at believing the best about people, unless they try hard to prove me wrong. I’m always attempting to look at the best possible outcome of every situation. But in matters of “things growing in someone else’s belly”, I find myself flailing. I am utterly reliant on the belly’s owner. She holds the power to say if things are good, or if they are bad.
So when she says there’s been no movement for two days, and lays there despondant, I have no choice but to tremble. I don’t know how to react to this. There’s no way that I can challenge her feelings, and I can’t even tell a white lie about it to keep her spirits up. So we lay there, silent, panicking, desperately hoping for a sign of movement.
I wonder about our ability to carry on. I wonder how she would cope knowing she had death in her belly, and how she would cope with having it removed. I can’t even begin to think how utterly horrific it must be for her. The emptiness would kill me.
We’re scheduled to have an ultrasound later in the morning, and we lay there wishing it was 9:30 already, wishing we’d seen the Gosling moving, and were sharing that joy with our parents. But we’re not. We’re trying to muster the courage to get up, shower, and drive down to the clinic. To face our fears.
And then, as I lay there staring deep into the eyes of my beloved, hoping to peer deep into her soul and see the second life in there, she lets out a small, sheepish grin. ‘It kicked’.
I weep, like a man who thought he’d lost his unborn child.
Later, it seems that the Gosling was saving it’s energy for a big game of ‘piss off the ultrasound technician’. And we laugh. We laugh like people who thought their hearts were dead.
The little one twists and turns, hides it face from us. That’s okay. We’ve seen it’s heart beating strong, measured it’s femur, and spotted a kidney. All is well.