10 weeks, 5 days.

18th September 2023

10w5d

We do not live in a culture accustomed to not knowing. When we have a question, Google has the answer. We do not wait, we do not wonder; we find out.

Pregnancy is a practice of not knowing. Of the impossible to know. Of the constant wondering, that naturally becomes worrying because we are so out of the habit of sitting with a question.

I have a scan and the NIPTs test in 2 days. I just need to get through the rest of today’s work day, then tomorrow’s, then I get to know. Or at least, know more. Last time we saw the baby, they were but a translucent tadpole, living off a yolk sac, heart visibly beating through their body. This time, in theory, they will look more… baby-like. Still out of proportion, with their head as big as their body, and still curled in a way that makes you wonder if their back hurts, but more baby-like. They should have a growing placenta and an audible heartbeat.

Should. Because, you know. It could be bad news. It could still be a tadpole. It might have stopped growing somewhere along the way without our knowledge. It might not have a heartbeat; it could be a silent little womb down there, little do I know. The NIPTs test could come back showing a genetic abnormality, incompatible with life. All of these outcomes are statistically less likely than the positive outcome of a healthy, growing baby, but they’re real possibilities. People I am close with have experienced some of these outcomes. They approached the scan with optimism and were met with cruel heartbreak. They miscarried days before they thought they were safe to tell the world. So much time had passed that they were lulled into a false sense of security that everything was fine when in reality, they just didn’t know yet that nothing was.

The next couple of days will be tricky leading up to the scan. I’ve already been wrestling with it since I got a strange cold sensation in my abdomen on Saturday night. I don’t know what it meant - if anything - but it’s been easy to assume the worst. I’ve been obsessively scanning my body since - does anything else feel different? Are my symptoms easing? Do I still feel pregnant? Regardless of the answers, the worry persists. I almost vomited after dinner last night; but that could just be nerves. My boobs continue to ache and weigh on me; but that could be nothing. I still can’t breathe properly, I’m perpetually short of breath; but that could be anxiety now. There’s an alternative reasoning for every attempted comfort.

There is no fix for this. My husband, like many men, is a fixer. When I express a problem or concern, his instinct is to fix it, solve it, and rid me of it. This is both very sweet and, of course, a little frustrating when I just want to vent some feelings without talking solutions. But this is one thing that, no matter how much he wants to, he can’t fix. Neither of us can. All I can do is sit with my bad thoughts, acknowledge the statistical likelihood in either direction, recognise that they are anxious thoughts, not necessarily accurate ones, and wait. Wait until I am gifted more knowledge. Wait until we know more. Wait, then respond.