…we went and got married again.
It was a perfect day, preceded by weeks of utter exhaustion and chaos. We have new respect for wedding planners: this was the most low-key party ever to be thrown outside of a parental backyard, and it nearly killed us. But it did not. The food was good (and the caterer’s partner, a dentist, fixed our bridesmaid’s broken tooth that morning), we didn’t run out of wine (even if the champagne was served not at all when we’d intended), and, after an Indian friend bustled me off to a corner to pin me in more appropriately, the sari ended up being the perfect choice for glamorously concealing my lost waist.
Today is our real first OB appointment (not to be confused with the “holy shit, I’m panicking” appointment two weeks ago). Exciting, but terrifying. I’m convinced, now that we’ve told a few close friends and the parents and the aunts and uncles who were in town for the wedding, that the universe will take it all back. Hubris is a particular fear of mine, you understand.
It’s also that the two weeks since the panic appointment are by far the longest I’ve gone without seeing a doctor in months. It is very difficult to believe that my body could know what to do without constant intervention, and knowing how little useful intervention exists at this stage of the game does not help.
(What also doesn’t help is the light brown spotting I’ve had most days in between these appointments. It has never become any of the things the nurse told me to call back about — heavy, red, very crampy — but it is hard to be sanguine about it.)
(My God, what a terrible pun. Apologies.)