On July 31, 2015, the day Hercules died, I cried all day. My eyes were raw, my face as red as a turnip, and my heart depleted, like someone had turned it inside out and washed it a trillion times on the sanitize setting. I was truly exhausted and sick with sadness.
At around 4 PM, I wondered out loud, “When am I going to get my darn period!?” Despite years of pain associated with my monthly cycle, I can say that those since my surgery have brought with them a kind of release, an emotional leveling. I was ready for a new month. I was ready to start over.
Breastfeeding and sleep disruptions have made my period fairly unpredictable since having Daphne. I had no idea when it last came (end of June maybe?) because I haven’t been keeping track religiously. I figured there was no need to, really, until we decided to get serious about trying when Daphne turned 2.
Well, five hours after I put my first dog as an adult, my first baby, to sleep, I found out I am pregnant. Approximately 5 plus weeks. I have no delusions that this will work out. Only hope. And a healthy dose of fear. The nausea hasn’t set in yet, exactly, but I feel hung over and exhausted. My first ultrasound is a week from tomorrow. Until then, I try not to think too far ahead. I try not to wonder about gender, and names, and what life will look like with a two year old and a newborn baby.
One thing I am thinking about, however, is prepping food before the nausea comes. I figure I can eat it anyway even if I miscarry, right? I have a bit of energy this afternoon (a 2.5 hour nap will do that!), so I’m going to try to make almond flour banana bread and veggie heavy chicken soup. These are two nutrient dense foods I think I’ll be able to stomach if and when it hits me.
I’m also thinking about how behind I am on my projects. I have a post planned on CF about Vitamin D, and an essay I want to write here about the James Holmes case. And there’s my book too. But for now any extra energy is going toward Daphne, and resting, and trying to move away from grief and toward joy. Even if this pregnancy doesn’t work out, it’s a HUGE blessing considering my reproductive history. There were no teas involved, no magical pills, no prenatal vitamins. Only a healthy lifestyle and bittersweet luck.
The day Daphne was born, it was a blood moon. A dear friend pointed out on the day Hercules died, that it would be a blue moon that night. Sure enough, a few hours after testing for the second time, the moon shown full and illuminated the sky. To me if felt like an eerily beautiful tribute to a decade of love between a girl and her dog, along with the promise of an exciting new chapter. To me, it still feels like a really good sign.