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No, not that P-Funk. In my case, the p stands for pregnancy. Also placenta previa. Panic. Prematurity. Please let us all make it through this.

The funk — well, I'm in one. I'm in a bad way. I cry a lot, and easily. During the day, I experience isolated fits of weeping. It's better, however, than the night, when I have long, vivid, literal dreams — in the one that recurs most frequently, I am at the hospital begging to be cared for. My request is refused by a doctor who tells me it's too early, that they couldn't save my baby even if I were admitted, that at this point they wouldn't even try.

Yeah, it's pretty bad.

I know that plenty of women have gone almost to term with placenta previa and delivered perfectly healthy babies via uncomplicated C-section. And plenty more have had a scare or two but ultimately went home with babies who have fourished. At the moment those facts are little consolation, since I can't forget that I've so often been the statistical outlier. Time and again, I beat the odds, in good ways first, then very bad. While I'm no more prone to a bad outcome than most women, I'm shellshocked enough not to be soothed very much by even the most encouraging statistics.

I wasn't entirely easy in this pregnancy to begin with. I'd had no reason to think there was anything wrong, but I worried nonetheless. It's just what we do — we worry for no good reason. We worry, and it's mostly for nothing.

Now I have something to worry about, something concrete and serious and documented by ultrasound. I could tell myself that nothing bad has happened yet, but it doesn't seem to help when I know that now it might.