It’s only anxiety, I tell myself. The only thing worse than anxiety is being anxious about it. So I think I’m coming to terms with the fact that my 38 year old vessel is not perfect. And maybe wasn’t perfect when it was 36 and carrying Emily either. (We know my appendix was a ticking time bomb, but that’s another story). It doesn’t have to be perfect to protect and feed a new life for 9 months.
My testosterone levels were on the low side (72 instead of the desired 100) so I have to double up my doses. Also my creatinine levels were a hair elevated (1.04 where normal is 0.57 to 1.00). My creatinine is always on the high end, so this is not new information, but I do really need to start drinking more water. I’m a lifelong camel, and not terribly proud of it, but I’ve just never enjoyed drinking liquids, in general. (With the exception of coffee + cream + sugar, but headaches put a stop to that habit a few years ago).
All of this is small potatoes. But I’m a perfectionist, so it feels like getting a 90 on an exam. I can’t help but feel like 90 is just the start of a slippery slope to 80, 70 or even failing altogether. I know this is ridiculous.
To this day I still feel like I never “completed” my first pregnancy, because I only took it to 36 weeks. Never mind that that child is now 26 months old, happy, healthy and bright as the sun! I can’t help but feel like I bowed out early somehow. As if I had any control? As if 36 weeks isn’t an accomplishment to be proud of? I don’t know why my brain works this way, but that’s how it’s always been, whether it’s physicsing or momming.