Rounding the Bend

So. I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

I’ve said those words dozens of times at this point, and at times they still seem foreign, like I’m referring to myself as the wrong name. At times, it is still hard to believe this is my reality now. For a long time, it was something I was terrified to embrace, like the moment I held the I’m pregnant reality in my hands, it would certainly get taken away. I held it arm’s length, desperately wanting to hold it, feel it, believe it, but somehow keeping my emotional distance helped give me some sense of control. It’s not rational, but it’s real.

 On the outside, it might look silly to still be “assuming” something will go wrong. By this time, the vast majority pregnancies do just fine. Being that I have taught sixth grade math and consequently am an expert on probability, I do know that a 97% chance of things turning out fine is good. As a friend of mine said: “Would you go to Vegas on those odds?” And while spending time in Vegas to me sounds about as fun as drinking the “juice” from my gestational diabetes test, I most certainly would go to Vegas on those odds.

And yet, still, I have found myself taking a couple steps toward this potential reality and then one away, wanting to embrace it as real and then inching away. I remind myself of one of the dogs we’ve fostered who desperately wants human contact but is also afraid of it. Being both drawn to and afraid of something is a complicated set of emotions. Two steps forward and one back is still a net positive, though, and I do sense that progress is being made. Slowly, bit by bit, I’ve felt myself inching closer to this possibility, this chance that this could be real and not a terrible trick.

One big fear for me was the 20 week ultrasound. The big one. The scan where you go to a maternal fetal medicine specialist and they use a machine that was probably made from parts of the space station and cost more than my entire net worth including sellable organs, and they tell you if your baby is growing properly. We had had every genetic test you can safely do, but this was the next big hurdle. I hoped it would be the next thing to loosen my emotional corset, so to speak.

We arrived at the appointment about a half hour early, which is the earliest I have ever arrived at anything my whole life, save my own wedding. My legs bounced like an oversugared toddler as I filled out the forms and waited for my name with equal parts anticipation and fear.  I still struggled to accept the idea that we could have a pregnancy free of complications. I still steeled myself for the answer not to Is anything wrong? but  What is wrong?  As they called my name, I walked back to the ultrasound room with my heart attempting to crawl out of my throat.

As the images popped up on the screen, I was immediately shocked at their detail. I searched immediately for the familiar flicker of a heartbeat and instead of the typical blip blip blip blip blip on the screen, the ultrasound tech pointed out the actual chambers of the heart and valves opening and closing. Instead of seeing just an arm going back and forth, I saw fingers making a fist. I saw a face and toes and brain and kidneys and could count the vertebras of the spine.  

This – the growth of a baby inside of a woman, cells becoming tissues, tissues becoming organs – has happened billions and billions of times over the course of history. It is commonplace. And it is also one hell of a miracle.

The maternal fetal medicine specialist - who looked surprisingly like a 32-year-old ski bum despite his job requiring about 35 years of schooling - came in after the ultrasound was complete, and I did my best to not jump off the table and demand all the answers immediately.  He wisely began with a blanket, “Everything with the baby looks good,” and shared some more specific information on the baby’s development. He then asked, “Did you have genetic testing done?” My heart simultaneously stopped and sped up to 309 beats per minute. “Yes. They were clear. Why? Why do you ask? Is something wrong? Is everything okay?” He smiled, clearly accustomed to anxious moms verbally assaulting him with questions. “No, everything looks good. I was just asking because of your age.” Ah, the joys of pregnancy in the 35+ category. “Oh, you mean because I’m so young,” I responded. “Right. Yes,” he said with a wink. Don’t wink at me, Doogie Howser who looks like he should be smoking weed behind the lift shack.

Later, he did share one potential complication. Because of the uterine surgery I had (which possibly was making this pregnancy possible in the first place), there was an increased risk of complications with delivery. I quickly asked if there was any risk to the baby; the answer was no, just a slight risk to me.  When I heard that, I exhaled in relief and felt almost dismissive of additional information. It’s interesting, this shift that is already beginning, when self-importance begins to fade and your attention shifts to your kid.  It’s like I can already feel my priorities changing.

Doogie explained that, because the placenta was located near the surgery scar, there was a chance that it could get stuck on the scar. That’s the exact word he used: stuck. He explained that the possible outcomes for this were wide, ranging from no complications to “something might go wrong, so we will just monitor you during delivery,” to a possible additional surgery. I would get an additional ultrasound at 32 weeks to see if the placenta was attached to the scar tissue, and we would make a plan from there.  When I asked more probing questions, his responses were remarkably indecisive and casual. “That’s the thing about medicine… We give you a range of possibilities but we really can’t be too specific, because we don’t know. I’ve been in delivery rooms where I thought we would definitely be surgically removing the placenta, but then I give a little tug, and then pop! Out it comes,” which is about the same level of precision I use when my Fritos get stuck in the vending machine.

So, I continue to emotionally inch towards this possibility that we are actually making progress towards parenthood. At the latest appointment, my doctor told me that I am “at viability” which means that I am to the point where, if something goes wrong, there is a chance the baby could survive thanks to the miracles that occur in a NICU. This caught me off guard. Whoa. That means this being inside of me is almost capable of survival.  That if something starts to go “wrong”, we have moved from the land of I’m So Sorry, There’s Nothing We Can Do to There Might Be Some Very Expensive And Very Intensive Things We Can Do.   The abstract puzzle pieces that had been forming in my subconscious were slowly beginning to form a picture without my conscious effort.

Lately, I have found myself reflecting on Fear and Anxiety, as well as their cousins Doubt and Uncertainty. I’ve long since struggled with anxiety and have learned that fighting it merely fuels the fire and have had much more success simply noticing it, reflecting on its purpose and root, and then gently setting it aside as I move throughout my day.  Pregnancy and impending parenthood have brought with them a new glossy catalogue of things upon which I can dwell and perseverate.  The terrifying realization that we will soon be responsible for keeping a human being alive can stop me in my tracks. I have heard that parenthood is to forever have your heart walking around outside your body, vulnerable to the risks and hazards that are an inherent part of existence, because living is dangerous.  

So, why do we do it? Why, do we as adults with full agency and control over our decisions, make conscious efforts to plan to procreate? Why subject ourselves to the pain and fear and worry and devastation that can occur when you love another human with such ferocious intensity? Certainly there is biological wiring at play that ensures our species will continue to exist and evolve.  And also, for me – it is to see how my life can expand. I know that with every person or animal or activity or thing or experience I open myself up to loving or enjoying, my life expands and grows along the positive end of that spectrum. I will experience new joys and celebrate new successes. And yet, I also know that for every step I inch forward on the positive end, there is potential for equal amounts of pain and anguish on the other. I cannot open myself up to love without also opening myself up to pain. And yet – isn’t this being alive? It’s certainly how I want to live. I want to continue to expand my life so that I take advantage of all available experiential real estate, overflowing onto the margins and coloring on every possible square inch of the page.

For this next adventure, I think I might need another notebook.

And so – onward we go. With every week that passes, this little being inside me grows and develops more, as evidenced by my growing abdomen and the squirms and wriggles I feel daily.  The apps on my phone tell me each week what fruit our baby most closely resembles (which at first was cool and now I find entirely weird). The reality that we will soon be parents approaches slowly but steadily in the rearview mirror, the images growing in detail and complexity. It is a bizarre feeling, really, to feel so thankful and also so terrified at the same time. We naively check off our to-do list (as if painting the trim in the baby’s room renders you to better equipped to sustain human life) while also knowing we will never be prepared. And as my belly expands, our excitement and trepidation also grow in what feels like an equal proportion to one another. In some regards, we feel so anxious to be parents and in others so ill-equipped to be solely responsible for the care of another human being. And, yet, despite our anxieties and questions, this reality continues to approach.

And so – then I pray. I pray not so that my fears to be taken away but as a way of acknowledging their existence, root, and purpose. For me, holding on to Fear and anxiety is like trying to wrestle a helium balloon under my jacket, trying hard to cling to something that was never meant to stay a part of me. Prayer allows me to open up my jacket and examine Fear, gaze at it and see it for what it is. Sometimes prayer results in me letting out a little bit of string so Fear doesn’t completely block my field of vision. Sometimes, with me barely noticing, several feet of string slip through my fingers, with Fear floating so far above me it rarely enters my gaze. Sometimes I pray and start to feel myself loosening my grip on Fear but then become so afraid of letting go of Fear that before I even register what is happening I am back to shoving it in close to me and struggling to zip up my jacket over it. And sometimes – far less often than I care to admit – I watch as my hand opens almost involuntarily and the string is whisked from my hand. I stare upward, craning my neck to watch Fear slowly fade into the sky, smiling softly as I realize it was never mine to carry.

And also – I know that likely soon I will find another balloon in my jacket, and I will once again find myself attempting to wrangle it into submission. I will forget to pray, or I will avoid praying, or I will tell myself I don’t need to pray, and I will attempt to live my life as if I have everything under control, all the while shoving balloons in my sleeves. And then, I will hear that still, small voice: You don’t need to carry all that. Please, let Me help. And slowly, warily, I might let some string through my fingers.

I will do this when I suddenly think, I haven’t felt movement in two in a half minutes. Something is certainly wrong. I will do this when I find myself suddenly wide-eyed at two a.m., worrying about whether my milk will come in. I will do this when I get close to my due date and think poetically, Oh wow, shit’s about to get real. I will do this when I find myself on the way to the hospital, passing all the cars of people living their life as if our whole world isn’t about to change. I will do this when I stare at a child that is half me and half the man I love most in this world and consider the enormous responsibility that lays before us. I will do this when I feel inadequate and useless and have no idea what to do next.

I’ll do this because I know it’s best.  I’ll do this because I know I was not created to carry fear. But mostly, I’ll do this because babies can be a lot to hold, and I just don’t have enough arms for all those damn balloons.