I didn’t really appreciate how much the isolation of pandemic restrictions would make this, these terrifyingly uncertain and physically exhausting first few weeks of pregnancy, so hard. I’ve been deeply depressed.
I actually think I’m doing a much better job managing my anxiety, but it doesn’t really matter much when everything else feels so impossibly out of reach now, when I’m waking up every morning thinking, “This again?” Before, all I could do was keep showing up. It worked. But now there’s nothing to show up to.
Well, except for today. I took the Metro. My app said the Red Line train was scheduled train 123, which made me smile a little, thinking of the 1974 movie about another scheduled train 123. I thought, too, about how it had been nearly three-and-a-half years now since that awful ultrasound, the one that changed everything, the one that was currently quickening my every breath.
I shuddered. You’re nervous? Very. Nothing that happens here will change what already is. We can’t control it. I know. Do you want to see? Only if it’s good.
A little bean. A heartbeat. 123 beats per minute.
Keep growing. Be healthy.