Weeks 2 to 8: May fever

the planets aligning
       I rearrange
my night

                     Francine Banwarth

Suddenly, it seemed like I had to do everything at once; feel everything at once. Now that the many pregnancy home tests all seemed to be in the pink, some more and some less, the brain began to believe the crystal glass of my two-month old dream encasing all the beautiful flowers of this planet was broken. The heart knew only to thump. It never ever thumped like this; not even during orgasm. The monstrous thumps sounded in my ears, eyes and the ribcage. And it would soon be followed by my much-wished for puking session. Nothing seems to be staying inside and every meal was followed by this terrible anxiety...as if I was caught in a whorl that was choking me. It came closer and closer and got darker and darker till light broke through in the form of my vomit. Very poetic I know. 

It sounds fake when recounted but in the first half of the month of May, it was as if all my intuitions, my instincts, all the miraculous unknowns that make up our mind and soul seemed to have caught fire. I could predict my own pains seconds before they occurred. I knew which kind of heartbeat increase meant I would puke badly and which simply meant I was suffering from extreme anxiety. I knew when my hip would start protesting and when the tailbone told me it was time to go back home from office...simply abandon and sleep NOW! I simply knew what was inside me at this point was very very delicate and I shouldn't be on a bike or go anywhere.  (This apparently was true enough, for I was advised 'rest rest and more rest' when I eventually visited the doctor). 

I had been taken over. Gladly. 

There were a million things to do of course. The hospital had to be decided even if the hands were clammy about was it too soon to do so; advice had to be asked from a distant cousin despite all misgivings because there was no one else to ask and I wasn't ready to tell anybody. Eventually, I did both and a positive blood report stilled the thumping somewhat. The already superstitious soul had turned madder. Every visit to the loo (that meant every half an hour) involved peeping into the panty with trepidation. Was it clean? Whew, it was. Every song chosen randomly on the phone or the ipod had a 'message' for me. Every crow that flew in a pair brought a smile just as a lone crow made me restless. Everything HAD to be right. I should do nothing wrong. The pressure to ensure so was unbearable if not for the intrinsic joy behind it -- that simply paled everything else. 

And then the dreams began. Grandparents visiting me in our old house, the ghosts of my and my husband's ancestors weaving a protective web made of gauze around me, the horrible night when I felt somebody who wanted to steal my baby was walking outside our room and deliberately wearing anklets to let us know she was there and the recurring dream of light breaking through, slowly, surely and deliberately in a dark, dark cave full of icicles. 

I was always a sucker for symbolism and my raging hormones were dunking me in them. 

'Deep Blue' by Bhaskar Chandravarkar from the album 'Sound of the seas'