Seven weeks today, and given a heartbeat was found last week this means I’m now ahead of the seven early losses I’ve had.
Next up are the two missed miscarriages, which I’m now in the red zone for. My anxiety is not too bad so far, but I think I’m going to book another reassurance scan next week as I don’t ever want to repeat finding out the heartbeat stopped three weeks earlier – too shocking.
My nausea has gotten much worse. It ranges from background annoying to full-on, I-want-to-curl-up-on-the-floor-and-cry sickness. I am never actually sick (I have a cast-iron stomach), but the feeling is akin to severe hangover-sickness. It’s really hard to bear sometimes – worse than for my other pregnancies. As much as I feel totally rotten, I love it. It says something must be going on and that’s a good sign.
My boobs are now also really sore, and this has gotten much worse over the last few days too. And the bloating has finally started (although, maybe I’ve just put weight on from the massive amount I’ve been eating). Actually, my appetite has tailed off a bit this week, which is a good thing.
At the end of each day, I lay down on the bed slowly, trying not to wobble my breasts too much and taking big gulps of air to try and calm the undulating ebb and flow of green in my stomach.
It’s fab. I love that I feel so sh*t. And I’m not being sarcastic. Even if I did cry about how bad I felt, I’d be smiling through the tears because this is what I’ve been hoping and dreaming about for years. I smile when I swallow my steroids, even though I am mentally a zombie on them. I smile when my progesterone leaks out, overruns the liner and ruins my underwear with a stinky trail of vegetable fat every day.
It’s all good.
And, incredibly, still no spotting. So far, so good.