The one and only time that I broke a major bone (you know, not like a toe) was when I was thrown off a horse when I was about 7 or 8. I knew it was going to happen from the moment I got on the horse. I loved horses and I took lots of horseback riding lessons. I was extremely fortunate that the school I attended had horseback riding (no, it was not a public school – that hell came later) and I was able to spend many afternoons grooming the horses or perfecting my posting. I hadn’t made it to cantering or jumps yet, but I was getting there.
The horse that threw me was named “Johnnie” and I remember exactly what he looked like. He was a chestnut with a white diamond on his forehead and he had what my husband would classify as ‘tude. I didn’t want to ride him that day because he was being particularly ornery. And, I knew even at that tender age that you don’t mess with a horse that’s ornery. But, they said, “oh no, it’ll be fine.”
They had set him up on a lead line – they tie the reins on the pummel of the saddle, put attach a lead to the horse’s bridle and then direct the horse in circles with you on the horse. I seem to recall that the purpose was to begin me on cantering with a little “let’s-get-to-trust-the-horse” thrown in for good measure. While I had no problem trusting horses in general, I had a major problem trusting this horse. We started off fine but it went down hill when they decided to give him a little whack to move into a canter. He didn’t like the whack, bucked and so off I went (since of course, I had NO REINS!). I landed on my right arm and remembered that it hurt. Turns out I had a hairline fracture right below my shoulder and didn’t even get a cast for my trouble. I had a sling and had to learn how to write lefty-style which so didn’t go well.
What’s my point in telling this sob story? It’s that I knew even then that the only way for me to overcome my fear of being thrown again was to literally get back on a horse (although, not that horse, please). And I did. It was not a triumphant return and I don’t think that I handled it well, but I did it. Did it magically erase my terror? No, and I learned that I will probably always have a little bit with me since I have had that experience. But, I learned that I could do it. image: Big Grey Mare
I feel the same way about being pregnant again. You would think that doing it again would give you some sense of power and achievement when in reality I am terrified. I know first hand what can happen and how awful it is. I’m practically in denial that I’m pregnant because I am so afraid of getting excited again and getting smacked up side the head. I haven’t really looked at due dates (late September? eh?), I certainly have not pulled out the name list we started last time, and we haven’t even told Sweetie’s parents (who also didn’t know about the IVF). It’s just like when I was going through the IVF – one day at a time. Otherwise, I will look forward to each milestone as the time when the fairy tale will come crashing down. I know that I am trying to assume that it won’t work out because I can’t bear to let myself begin to hope. Not yet.
The good news is that my beta today was 191. So, in 48 hours, it *almost* completely doubled from 98 on Wednesday. A true double would be 196. I have decided that I’m not going to be concerned about those 5 little whatevers and take comfort that Dr. Uterus is so far not concerned. And my progesterone is still apparently quite astronomical.
Next hurdle: first OB scan (OMG, OMG, OMG) the week of Feb. 25. It was at my last OB scan that things went south so this will be hard to say the least. I hope I don’t have flashbacks. I also hope that Sweetie will be with me this time.
For now the lesson is to just breathe. Deeply. As often as necessary.
ps: Ironically, I haven’t ridden a horse since the time I got back on the horse, but I’m not afraid of them and I still love to pet their wonderfully soft schnozzles (read = noses).