Well, it's officially official and officially unavoidable. Not that there was really any doubt anymore at this point, but somehow seeing that misshapen blob on the ultrasound screen made it more real. And more terrifying.
Is there ever a time to lie to one's spouse? I don't think so, but at the same time I felt awful guilty for telling the truth. When we left the hospital, B asked me if I was excited and happy. I told the truth.
Not At All.
I feel like a disposable extra from one of the Alien movies waiting to find out if a chestburster is going to erupt from their innards.
I'm scared, nervous, anxious, a whole slew of things that are decidedly not happy or excited.
I have nightmares almost every night.
I'm surrounded by people who, given the opportunity, squeal and coo and giggle and make all kinds of obscene feminine noises that make me feel even more alienated, alone, scared, and guilty.
I feel even more guilty for smiling at these completely incomprehensible antics.
I feel like I should be excited, but this is just too big to be excited about. Exciting is a new puppy, or a road trip, or something fun, pleasant, and eagerly awaited. This is unpleasant and set only to get even more intrusive and unpleasant. The end of these upcoming gestational months will not mark an end to the upheaval, either, although it should mark the culmination of the physical pain and unpleasantness.
Nope... it only gets even more scary from there, because after that I'm supposed to be responsible for the entirety of the existence of some other human creature. Puppies, kittens, squirrels, birds, possums, goats.... name it, and at some point I've probably taken extensive care of it, up to and including nursing young back to health who've lost their mother. They're nothing like human young. I've dealt with those, too, and quite frankly I don't know what to do with them. They don't communicate like other baby animals. It's like they're mentally deficient up until they get to the pointing and grunting stage, which is only marginally better. If I'm as ignorant of my own child as I am of every other human baby I've ever been forced to tend to, the damned thing won't make it past a year.
I think it was my Gramma who once said that it would be more appropriate to mourn at a birth and rejoice at a funeral. She said the baby is coming into a world of evil and heartache, while the corpse is going home. There's not much religious stuff that I subscribe to. I am more of a heathen spiritualist and shun every Western organized religion. I'm a little more open toward Eastern belief systems, simply because they're less concrete, more tolerant, and less judgmental. But I'm getting off topic... I believe that. I believe that we should be happy when someone dies and sad when someone's born. Look around you. Maybe not in your home. Your home might be a pleasant place full of love and joy. Look at the world. The wide world. Do you like it? Do you love it? Does it have a funky beat you can dance to? You might, but I don't. It's big, ugly, and indifferent out there. The 1950's, good neighbors, patriotism, and rolling steel are gone forever from almost everywhere except military housing. (I have to add that caveat, because I have found good neighbors here, and what actually feels like a neighborhood rather than just a cluster of humans forced to inhabit the same space.)
Why am I not happy and excited? I was scared and a little disappointed when I thought I was losing it, but now that it seems it's going to keep, I feel even more scared. Add to that all the excitement that everyone else is displaying, and I feel like maybe there's something not right with me after all.
When I told B that I wasn't happy and excited, that I was still tending toward nervous and scared, he just hugged me. I know it wasn't the answer he wanted, though. I'm glad he's happy and excited. It makes me less scared, and sometimes it's even a little contagious.