my memory’s such a fickle thing

my memory’s such a fickle thing

Tomorrow, I’ll be 16 weeks pregnant.  What is that?  Roughly 4 months?

It sounds like that’s a long while to have been pregnant.  And yet, it feels like no time has passed at all.

We didn’t plan for this baby.  To be honest, I wanted it; but I didn’t think I was ready.  I was six months into a new job.  And about three months clinically depressed.  With those conditions, it isn’t the best kind of planning to jump in and make a baby.  And yet, we did.  Mostly by accident.  Entirely by grace.

Sometimes when I stop to think about what it all means–what the future might bring and how I might fail, I get a little scared.  But I’m thankful.  Immensely and indescribably thankful.  And I’m happy.  Happier than I’ve been in more years than I can remember.  It’s probably just the hormones.  Still, I want to remember all of it.

But, I’ve got a terrible memory.  It’s a good thing, in a lot of ways.  I don’t really hold grudges and I never get hung up on “bad” things from the past.  But, obviously, I often forget a lot of the good things I want to remember.  Maybe that’s why I like writing.  I like writing– memories, ideas, stories; bits of life; bits of fiction.  But I haven’t been writing.  I get tired these days.  Tired and sleepy… and congested with terrible headaches.  So I haven’t been writing.  But I ought to.

I’ve already forgotten a lot from the past 16 weeks.  As short or as long as it’s been.  I’ve forgotten what it felt like to come home after work and sink into the sofa unable to move because I was so tired and nauseous.  I forgot what it felt like after eating anything at all– hormonal indigestion turning all my food into lead.  I forgot waking up to new pimples every morning wondering if I’ll ever see my skin again.  I forgot the gagging and retching that ripped up from my gut every morning, and afternoon, and evening.

But I remember remembering.  If that makes sense.  I remember with my brain that it really didn’t feel good.  And I remember worrying that I wasn’t eating enough, and staring at my prenatal vitamin wondering if I’d be able to keep it down long enough for it’s magic percentages of vitamins and minerals to get to the baby.  And I remember rolling over, away from the small puddle of my own spit on the blanket I was using as a pillow on the couch, thinking only, “Nerugh, too tired. Must sleep more.”  And I remember waking up, sweating and shaking, struggling to hear through the ringing in my brain as my vision cleared and I waved at the attendant helping me, “No. No ambulance, please. I’m fine. I’m fine.” –I’d just fainted in public; apparently my blood pressure and blood sugar had tanked.  Yes, I remember remembering.

But it’s so strange that I don’t remember what it all felt like.  And there’s a small part of my brain that whispers, “It wasn’t so bad. You could do it again. You feel fine now.”  And I really do feel fine now.  Or fine(r).  I did take a four hour nap today.  And my stomach feels like bloated ball of dough that was kneaded for too long and left to dry in the sun.  But, I can eat… a lot.  And I’m neither constantly dizzy nor nauseous.  And even my skin’s clearing up.  Sort of.  I’m enjoying my pregnancy.  I’ve enjoyed my pregnancy.  All 16 weeks.

And so I’m writing.  To remember later, when I’ve forgotten.