If you have been reading this blog for very long, then you already know that my pregnancy was, hands down, the most joyful season in my entire life. I loved being pregnant.
When I was pregnant with Sean, I was deliriously (and obnoxiously) joyful. I had a Cover Girl complexion (thanks to the can of sardines and three avocados I ate every day), my hair was full and lustrous and bouncy (probably from the steady diet of Filet-O-Fish). I was never more creative or funny or witty (too bad I didn’t have a blog then) and everyone was nice to me. Oh, and my boobs were very perky too, which is saying something at my age.
I was radiant from the inside out and everyone seemed to take notice of it, which only served to encourage the blue birds to circle around my head and the sun to shine even brighter upon me. I announced to everyone I came in contact with that !* I *! was pregnant! Would you like to touch my tummy? No? Oh go ahead, touch me! No really, touch my tummy Mr. Fed Ex! Do it or I won’t sign for the package!
I don’t know how you would explain a non-hugger like me grabbing the hand of a complete stranger and holding it against her tummy other than wacky hormones. I just don’t know.
I was seven weeks along when I found out I was pregnant with Sean and he came six weeks early, so I figure I got cheated out of at least three full months of fun-filled, sun shining, blue bird singing pregnancy and it still grieves me. That I ever conceived still baffles the best doctors in Dallas, doctors who are extremely nervous to give credit to God for that which is not understood. Yet they have done so.
Up until last week, I held out hope that I would have another child, that I would enjoy another pregnancy. That I would get another miracle. That Sean would have a biological sibling to torment. That those blue birds would circle me one more time. Even though at my age and with my health issues, pregnancy is probably not ideal. But if I could, I would.
But tomorrow, on Valentines Day, that hope is no more. I will be having a complete hysterectomy. And while hope is a good thing, the upside to having none is that you can move on. And that’s what I intend to do. I shall move on grateful for what I have rather than disappointed over what I have not. Gratitude — it’s just a better way to go people.
So. Then. It has been said.
In the meantime, until I’m back in the blogging saddle, I’ll be time-releasing a post or two and beyond that I may post some vintage Antique Mommy stuff from the archives. Thank you in advance to my faithful circle of cyber-sisters who lift and cover me in prayer. You comfort me.