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.
