I cannot think through anything anymore. I am a ball of nerves, emotions, and a single minded mission to keep this baby alive.
In the last 24 hours, I have written approx. 6000 words on the subject of Bea's question, and all of what I wrote is unpublishable rambling inanity. I'm either totally manic, or the world's worst writer, bar none.
What it comes down to is that I don't like the question. It's too neat and too perfect, too full of absolutes. It puts me in a box, and doesn't allow me to be as nuanced as I like. Life is messy, at least my life is. I have already faced one kind of Genie when we ended Matthew's pregnancy and it was a hellish decision. And lots of women don't get that definitive diagnosis. They get the maybe choice, the mushy middle, the "we don't know" answer. Or they get told nothing and are left with a highly disabled child, lots of years off their life, and no choice in the matter. There are no guarantees, and yet, we are asked to make the risk of our lives, every time we chance a pregnancy. Some of us take years off of our lives, risking dollars and emotions, marriages, and our very psyche and never get a live baby at all.
I am more than a baby-making machine, but even having to say that assumes that it's a zero sum game for all women, and it isn't. Most women get to have a baby and be a parent and have a career without having to worry about whether they are defined as more than a broken uterus. I should get to do that too. Without having to cut any deals with Genies, with Gods, with government and insurance actuaries.
If someone tried to force me to choose? Really force me---I would die to save this pregnancy. Without hesitating. But it's a stupid thing for me to say, because if I die, the baby dies.
And this is where the rest of the post goes off the rails into Teh Crazee. So I'll save you 6000 words of blather. Have a beer instead.
Why am I going off the rails? Right now, I'm just not positive that Dinkypie is alive in there anymore. I think I just may have to buy that g#%^$%m home ultrasound machine. I thought about a doppler, but if I can't find the heartbeat, I'll go insane and run right over to the hospital and become hysterical on them until they can find it. Not such a great idea....so I don't own one. Instead I've decided to become hysterical all on my own without spending any cash up front.
I can only assume that I am flashing back to my last pregnancy. I'm 15 weeks 1 day today, and Georgia died at 15 weeks or so, but it wasn't discovered until 16 weeks. So naturally, I'm a little brain fucked.
Of course, I may just be feeling a little snowed in.