long goodbyesPosted: March 22, 2013
i’ve been pregnant for thirty-three weeks. that’s a week over eight calendar months. almost three-quarters of a full year. technically, in as short as five more weeks, the fetus stretching in my tummy as i type this sentence can kick its way out and officially start life as a full term baby. an actual, real-as-you-and-me human.
yet half the time i forget that i have this tiny, live person inside me. i would walk briskly by a shiny surface, happen to glance at my reflection, and would be surprised each time at how big and round my stomach has grown. i would try to pick something up, instinctively bend, and would be surprised each time my protruding tummy would barely let my fingers touch the floor. i would be in deep sleep, on my side with a pillow between my legs, and would be surprised each time a sudden strong jerk from within wakes me.
and always there would be that feeling of disorientation. of disbelief. of wonder. me, pregnant. what?
people ask if i’ve had enough of being pregnant. if i can’t wait to give birth. even pregnancy books say that at this point, the novelty of it all has most probably already worn off. but i guess i’m as unconventional as my pregnancy has been, because i don’t want to give birth just yet. i want these last five to seven weeks to go slow, so i can stay pregnant for as long as i can.
because i know that once i give birth, life will fast forward and everything will go by in a blur and there will be nothing i can do to pause it or slow it down. good or bad, there will be no undo button, not even temporarily.
this loss of control, of my body, of my life, of everything that i know me to be, it terrifies me.