Tears And Fears

I am Poppy, abstaining from my diary because to write down the torrent of emotions of the past few weeks would be to force myself to examine and re-examine and cross-examine the agonies that are a result of the choices I have made.
I had a scan today, halfway through my pregnancy, eating terribly as money is scarce but seeming to do okay; everything appeared fine, normal, good reassuring words used soothingly by well-trained women who are used to terrified faces of first-time mums and necks craned to look at grainy black and white moving magic pictures of their little ones.
I awake with nightmares some nights, flashes like the trailer of a Hollywood horror film of blood, images of gore, pictures of death and hospital waiting rooms and corridors and latex gloves and flashing lights and screams. I lie awake not feeling my baby move, fearing the worst, saying to myself that it would be a fitting punishment for an unfit mother, prodding my abdomen, desperate for a wriggle or a movement of some sort.
And then today, I see him there, kicking and writhing and flailing his fists, headbutting my bladder, well alive and thrashing around inside me, and I cannot even cry, so shocked, so relieved, halfway there and nothing going wrong yet.. I am blessed. We left the hospital, a few grainy black and white photos of hands and big feet and a right little poser, smiling, and I start to look to the future. My future, our future, me and my little boy. Things might just be okay.