The long, slow exhale
The rest of my life--the slim portion that doesn't revolve exclusively around my pregnancy--is plugging along at a tiring pace. But, then, everything is tiring at this point; I've even started taking elevators up a single flight of easy, wide stairs, which embarrasses me no end but is better than the heartracing and wooziness that any exertion brings about. I am told that this will pass one day, and just hope that day gets itself here in a quick hurry.
Work is hectic and frustrating and full of unmakeable deadlines, but is also better than before because my sweet, sweet Jeff is there with me every day, plugging away at the same mind-numbing projects. (Yes, we spend every minute of every day together. And we like it. Shut up.)
Tomorrow morning, we rent a van and drive to the City of Angels to pack up my grandmother's house. It will be a lot of work, but I will rest easier when it is done. And that sweet, sweet Jeff (have I overdone it with the "sweets"? Are you nauseated? I will stop) has found a way to fit Nam's brocade couch into the if-all-goes-well future nursery, where he has a vision of reclining on its burnt umber softness while the tiny Devo lies supine on his chest. This picture makes me want to cry, in a sloppy-happy-pregnant sort of way.
Two astonishing things today: 1) I saw a doctor who was not an R.E., and 2) I had an ultrasound for which I did not have to strip my skivvies. Hard to credit, but it's true. And, to my vast relief, there's still a living fetus in there, and his head, at any rate, has finally caught up: he measured 13 weeks 0 days; I am at 13 weeks 0 days.
I think this is the point where I may start to exhale. Tentatively, of course, and very, very slowly, but I think I might just try it nonetheless.