As I awaken, my eyes are closed, but my brain is one step ahead of me. It startles awake and asks, is it still there? Can I feel it? I shift my body a little to see if I can feel that dull pressure, the little something that tells me that my body is diligently at work even as I take my time emerging from asleep to awake. I breathe better when I feel the mild discomfort. My brain conjures up a labyrinth of wheels and tubes operated by lilliputians in hard hats, little helpers churning and scrambling to make my body do what it must to ensure the safe development of this new being. I move my hand to my belly to lend it a little extra warmth, to supply whatever extra energy I can.
I drag myself out of bed, stumble slowly to the bathroom, and plunk myself on the pottie. My eyes are still closed as I linger in the warmth of sleep, and the body does what it needs to. But as I start to wipe myself, my contact-less eyes pop open and I scrutinize the bowl for any trace of blood. Nothing alarming. It is relief that sets in, even though I know the routine will be repeated throughout the day. But for now, it is back to bed.
Back in bed, I snooze a little longer, warming up once again against Jeff. And here, I delay facing life for another few minutes, this life marked by fear, worries, possible loss. But in these few extra minutes in the haven of our smell, our warmth, our togetherness, I shore up the strength I need to face this code orange life. I remind myself that it is a life filled also with hope and possibilities, that there is life growing inside me, that today leads to tomorrow to the next day and possibly to that day in May next year when we will welcome this new life. And today is another day to be good to myself.