I will never again look at Friday the 13th and laugh at the superstition.
I may not hold with the superstitious crowd, but to me it’s one of those dates. My pregnancy was calculated from Friday the Thirteenth in April 2012 (the first day of my only period following my daughter’s birth). When my period started up six months after her birth—even though I was still nursing—my reaction was of course. When I realized that’s when my Week 1 of Pregnancy was calculated I figured maybe it wasn’t so unlucky. Silly me.
Today—Friday the 13th once again—I should be three months pregnant (not a week out from my D&C). Crossing the threshold of risk to the “safe zone.” I should be starting to wear my maternity clothes. I should be rubbing my belly—making plans for our family of four.
Instead, I woke up, realized the significance of the day, and began crying. And stayed that way for a good few hours.
My husband, leaving for work, asks me if I’m going to be ok. I answered that I had to be (I do have an eight month old to take care of after all). He didn’t like that answer. But what is OK? Is ok being able to put together a meal for my kid. To make coffee and a lunch for my husband? Because if so, I’m ok.
Is ok being able to take my daughter outside to play? To take care of the pool so it doesn’t turn green? To water my garden so we can have fresh vegetables? Because if so, I’m nowhere near OK.
When people ask how I am, I answer I’ve been better. Those are the only words that I know are true.
My husband ended up coming home from work early and worked from home—we are so lucky that he has that option. Apparently I didn’t sound OK over the phone. It’s been a hard day.
Friday the Thirteenth can just Go to hell…
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