Warning: this post is a bit of a bummer.
According to my favourite due date calculator, I am 38 weeks and 4 days pregnant today. This is the final part of the final stretch.
The thing is, I wish this stretch was over already.
I’m done being pregnant. I’ve been done being pregnant for a few months now, but the last couple weeks have been particularly challenging. My feet and legs are now so swollen from lymphedema I can no longer get them into my “too big” borrowed boots. I am sleeping in 1-1.5hr chunks due to SPD pain and have carpal tunnel issues that leave me feeling like my arms are in boiling water when I’d much rather be catching some zzzzzs. We have already had a midwife out in the middle of the night to check on contractions that were neither progressing nor going away — the same contractions that I’ve had almost every night this week.
I’m exhausted. I’m worn out.
I’m finding it much harder each day to put a positive spin on things, to aim for the day that #BabyTheLast makes her appearance.
I. Am. Done.
Before getting pregnant for the last time(s), I envisioned celebrating this last pregnancy — marking it as a completion of a stage of my life. Instead, three miscarriages shook my confidence, the juxtaposition of my brother’s sudden death against the discovery I was pregnant again changed my focus from relaxing into my pregnancy to focusing on putting one overly emotional foot in front of the other, and my compounding health issues have become a constant drain on my positive energy. I have not enjoyed this pregnancy at all.
The upside of this is I know, without a single doubt, that I do not want to do this again. Our family is complete. There will be no doubts about whether there is room for another child in our lives. #BabyTheLast is indeed the last. There will be no more.
I am ready for this journey to be over.