Once it became clear that there was something going awry with my previously calm pregnancy, I began to mentally prepare for the worst. It was as agonizing as you might imagine, but also involved the thought, “If this goes as poorly as it could…I’m going to need a major fucking vacation.” This was helpful (and has continued to be) because it gave me a sense of a happy future even without the baby we were so anxiously anticipating. Sure, maybe it wasn’t a vision of what the everyday would be like– convince yourself to get out of bed, smile and interact with people appropriately, truly appreciate what a supportive network of family, friends, coworkers, and internet strangers you have– but just imagining this escape was, for a time, escape enough.
When we got the official diagnosis, one of the things that GP said to me was, “Let’s go away. Like, far away.” Mind you, this happened without any suggestion from me that we might want to skip town to momentarily take our minds off All the Terrible; it was a good reminder that I married exactly the right man.
And so, just under a week from today, we’ll take that Big Fucking Trip to a Faraway Place. We’re going to be spending about two and a half weeks in Hong Kong and Thailand, courtesy of our joint wanderlust, my company’s generous PTO-donation program, and a desire to be far away from home when the day that was to be my due date passes. Yes, rather than finishing up a nursery and fighting for some decent sleep, I’ll be spending about sixteen hours on an A380, getting a couple more stamps on my passport, and living the shit out of my (currently baby-free, as the doctor said to wait six effing months) present.