The Pressure is On

This week we're having the floors replaced in the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Leaving the carpet in the bedrooms and the linoleum in the bathrooms (for now).

On the first day of construction, I came home to bundles of furniture collected in the center of the living room and in the kitchen. Clearly, cooking was out of the question. We also noticed a thick film of dust collecting on every surface (probably the walls too). All we can think about now is how much cleaning we'll need to do this weekend once it's all done - it was kind of depressing and made me anxious. Not that I'm not willing, but I know how fast I get tired these days.

Otherwise I can't believe we lived with this nasty gray carpet in our condo for nine stinking years. So much for being frugal. I hate spending the money, but it's all part of the plan to make the condo more appealing once we're finally ready to sell it and buy a house (not planning on it helping the value since that's in the toilet anyway). At this point, that could be another couple years. But I digress.

On the second day of construction, I was determined to lay on the couch in front of the TV so I rearranged a couple pieces of furniture. I felt like I had triumphed over a small hurdle, but by the end of the evening I was coughing up dust. Ick.

Our collective frustration manifested itself in, of all things, an argument about painting the walls. DH is in love with pure, flat, white paint. The kind you see in art galleries. I can see why he's attracted to it, but it's anathema to a home as far as I'm concerned. To me, pure white (except the trim, doors, and ceiling) is cold and hard. Not soft and warm like I prefer. Is it worth arguing about? Probably not, especially in that moment. But it was too late. I was pissed off.

I sat in a chair later (in the dust-free bedroom), trying to figure out why I was so frustrated. I could see it was symptomatic of the pressure I'm feeling all around me. I'm still getting used to being pregnant, am suffering some digestive maladies because of it, typically wake up 6-7 times a night instead of sleeping soundly, and feel overwhelmed at the thought of planning for the arrival of the baby and all the complexities it will bring:

• Will I keep working full time?
• Do I have a choice?
• How much is day care?
• Do we need to dump half our furniture so we're not crowded *sses-to-elbows in that condo?
• Can I afford to take 12 weeks off (6 unpaid)? Yeah, probably not but I want to so badly!
• How am I gonna bond with our baby if I have to work full time?
• Just how much water do I need to drink anyway?
• Am I really going to have this baby or is something gonna go wrong?
• We're so screwed...

Today's the third day of construction and we're not sure they'll be done before sometime tomorrow. But that's okay. I can live with dust (from the other room), and we can use it as an excuse to go out to dinner tonight. Protecting my sanity and marriage is more important anyway.

I was reminded yesterday, whether by the Spirit or nine months of counseling drilled into my head, that I need to make sure I take opportunities for self care. I'm woefully neglectful and lazy in that department - not sure why. So I'm signing up for chair massage at work once a month. Trying to prioritize exercise. Eating more vegetables and fruit. Saying no once in a while (though maybe not often enough).

I'd like to say that I'm procrastinating less but that would be a lie. I still can't make any decisions about the condo or the baby, and even though I'm on the docket to play guitar and sing background vocals with the worship band this Sunday I haven't picked up my guitar this week (barely touched it in the last month). What is wrong with me? I know I need to practice but, without the song list for this Sunday, I'm likely to wait until I see it before I bother so much as humming a tune.

And, if I'm honest, I have to admit I've been neglecting my relationship with Jesus which is the stupidest of all. My friendship with my Lord is my anchor in this world but I keep putting Him in a box instead of praying more and reading the Bible.

Just call me Procrastinitus Maximus!

Living in Tension

So we went on vacation this week. Opting for a reasonably priced, somewhat local option (we were thinking about Hawaii earlier this year, but it's just silly since I'm pregnant), we spent a week chilling out at my aunt & uncle's vacation home in the Utah mountains. I wouldn't say we did a lot - we did some stuff every day, but mostly relaxed which was the whole objective.

They say it takes three days for a person to actually relax on vacation. What would that look like? I use sleep as a gauge. In which case, relaxing apparently took a while - in fact, having arrived on Friday night it wasn't until the following Thursday night that I got a good night's sleep. The night before we headed home. Pretty sad, huh? But part of the reason is, that three-floor house in the forest surrounded by the black of night instead of the sounds of the city is downright creepy when it's just me and DH there. Otherwise we love it to pieces.

But anyway, on to the subject of the day: living in tension. I've said that I have decided to embrace hope, and that is true. As evidence I point to my generally non-stressed demeanor and acceptance of this pregnancy. I'm not freaking out about things anymore, though I kind of avoid learning much about raising a baby just yet. It's trickling in. Too overwhelming right now.

We finally decided to let the larger world in on our growing secret this week. Yeah, it took this long (I'm 17 weeks now). Letting the cat out of the bag feels like I'm enabling it to run away. Is that a weird analogy? And.. I still haven't told anyone at my work (save for the few who know me on more than a water cooler basis). And I still don't want to. Though they're probably about to start taking bets so I should.

I think there's something publicly embarrassing or just very awkward about people knowing about such an intense and private loss. Not like when a family member dies, but something.. I don't know what it is. Shame isn't the right word, I know.

Maybe it's because our society has no idea how to grieve publicly. We're taught to lick our wounds in our caves on evenings and weekends so we can be sparkly and productive on weekdays. But real life isn't like that. It kicks and screams and demands to be dealt with when it's inconvenient and messy and ugly. It relentlessly hounds us until we have nervous breakdowns or failed relationships, or until we pursue counseling or medications - or sometimes all of the above.

If this pregnancy doesn't work out, I don't know how I would return to work. I don't know that I would be mentally capable for some time. But why do such thoughts even cross my mind? Why am I still waiting for the other shoe to drop? Everything in my body is 100% clinically proven to be normal. Normal! The scans and the chromosomal blood tests prove it. So what the hell is my problem?

Oh wait... it's been a couple weeks since I cracked open that Battlefield of the Mind book. Guess it's time to do some more reading.

Sigh... God's work in my heart is never done.

What Does Support Look Like for Me?

That's the question I have been asking myself this week. I realize I've posted a number of questions from well-meaning people that have inadvertently hurt or otherwise negatively affected me. There are others that I haven't bothered posting, because this blog isn't just a rant (as relieving as that can be at times). No, I really do want to focus on positive things and I know that others really do just want to express support but just don't know how. I mean, would I if I were in their shoes? Yeah, probably not.

Generally speaking, people's reactions have been a mix of awe and wonder and relief and even tears, not to mention absolute joy! Despite this plus the evidence so far of a perfectly normal pregnancy, we haven't made any bigger announcements. I don't know why exactly – twice bitten forever shy? It just feels right to tell people individually. I'll never post my ultrasound pic as my profile on my FB page. I'm happy to just enjoy what I can while I can in the context of a powerfully moving event. Of course, I seriously don't mind if a friend or relative leaks the info because they just can't hold it in.

Anyway, back to ways I can think of that are good ways to support me. First I'd say, ask me or DH how we are doing, and accept our weird answers. It's never a straightforward "fine!" or "great!" – it's always a mixture of optimism, hesitation, maybe a bit of discomfort, and other things that just make us human because of what we've been through and where we are now. It IS weird!

Second, I would say, is to be a cheerleader. Okay that sounds over the top, right? But you'd be amazed at how some people have reacted. Some can't help but have a negative (clinical, stereotypical) reaction since I'm such a geezer and statistically it's just so risky and the baby could have all kinds of problems and… right. Never mind the fact that there are societies where having children in the 50+ range is quite normal. If I had paid homage to statistics and didn't believe in the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, I flat out would never have tried again. And believe it or not, other people's enthusiasm actually lifts us up.

Eh, that's about all I can think of.

"You're a Little Old to be Having..."

Oh no she di-n't!

As un-hip as I am, I imagine my head swerving side to side with a wild arm gesture while I'm saying this.

I felt like I needed to call my grandmother and tell her the news. So I did, and for a few seconds she was silent, then started saying “Well, you’re a little old to be having…” I cut her off and basically said that I would really, really love to hear some positive words from her right now, that I’ve been through absolute h*ll the last couple of years because of this stuff between two miscarriages and a diagnosis of infertility, that believe me if I could have done things different I would have…

Okay, quick reality check. I am well aware of just how "old" I am (just turned 42). It's risky. Doable, but risky. And I can only assume that if someone isn't rude enough to say it to my face, sooner or later their tongues will be wagging behind my back. What am I gonna do? Keep walking. Keep sharing my story. Keep forgiving.

I know this is just the way she is, and she does suffer from dementia, so I keep that in mind. But I wasn’t about to let something negative be the first words out of her mouth (again). I think it came out in a weird combination of panic, laughter, and yelling. The conversation ended well enough and she didn't seem to retain any of the tension from that moment. Just shocked silence, I suppose. Which is a logical reaction. Overall she seemed quite amazed and happy.

I have a weird relationship with my grandmother, though I don't think she knows how weird it is from my end. From the moment I was conceived she considered me the daughter she never had (she had three sons) and spoiled me mercilessly all my life. Until one day, my dad asked me whether I thought it odd how much she complemented me. And then I became aware. Aware of the devastating effects of favoritism across an entire generation in my family. Aware of just how humble I needed to be, and how I needed to separate myself from this favoritism, even if I couldn't get her to understand why (which I couldn't). It has left a legacy of... distrust, resentment, and a total lack of closeness that just makes me so sad. I have no relationship with my cousins which I can only presume is partly because of this.

I love her and forgive her, and just accept her the way she is since I know I cannot change her. But I have every opportunity to be a catalyst for change, to break the cycle of favoritism and resentment with God's hand in my life.

"Do You Want to be Pregnant?"

Hm.....

Hm.....

Had to think about this one for a while. DH asked me this after another bout of bitching and raving about exhaustion, indigestion, poorly fitting clothes, blah blah blah... Well mostly it's the indigestion. It's hard to be enthusiastic about anything if your list of edible foods can be counted on less than 10 fingers.

But anyway, back to my pondering. Here's why I don't want to be pregnant: the risk. The fear. The pain. The uncertainty. The checking of the underwear every time I go to the restroom (yes, still). The knowledge that anything can go wrong at any time, and really - we never run out of things to worry about. No real clearing of the woods, just milestones and minimizing risk and holding on to hope.

Here's why I do want it: To have the experience of giving birth just once. To see the joy on my husband's face when he holds his daughter or son for the first time. To realize the knowledge that it really is possible. To see my own flesh and blood running around the living room.

Part of me wants to give the big "ha! you were WRONG!" finger to the Specialist, but that's just dumb. Docs don't deal in absolutes, just percentages. So just what constitues a miracle in the eyes of a medical professional anyway? I can't prove anything to anyone. I can only tell my story and hope that it gives someone hope beyond their circumstances, to know that the end of something isn't the end of everything.

Last night I had a dream. DH and I were in a bedroom somewhere and I looked at a window. I noticed there was a recycling trash bin just below the window inside the room, which I thought looked kind of tacky. I looked again, and there was a mist of blood hovering over the trash bin. I looked again, and saw that the mist had been replaced by a slow-moving cloud hovering over the bin - I looked closely, noticing the nuances of the cloud as wisps curled around the edges. Then the cloud floated up to the ceiling. For some reason, I blew gently on the cloud. It began to dissipate, and then a small figure emerged from the cloud - it was a newborn baby, which was human but looked pale and otherworldly like the cloud. The baby began to float down, and I said "See? It's a baby!" to DH. He was leery, but the baby drifted down into the crook of my right arm. I held the baby, smiling. DH touched the baby's forehead, then its lips - and the baby caught his finger in its mouth in a gentle, sort of affectionate way. And then I woke up.

The next dream was one of those fast-action dreams with translucent tigers floating down a walkway in an Asian spa that changed plots every few minutes. Weird. Oh well.

Scan Day

It was a warm and clear night, and we passed the time watching a movie and getting in a 10-minute swim before the pool closed for the evening. Soon it was bedtime, and we felt a sort of peace that didn't make any sense. We had worked at letting go, at trying not to predict the joy or agony of a future we could not see. We had resigned ourselves to the fact that we have no control over the next day's news, and so we slept. Que sera, sera.

Morning came, too early for me, but I rose anyway. I ate half a bagel shortly after 6 a.m. since I was already starving, then hit the shower and began the routine of the day. Of course, this routine was interrupted by a morning visit to the doctor. This was the day of the big, fat ultrasound scan. The one that would tell me my future or at least the next year of it. I refused to project reactions and just prayed a little.

We drove to the doc's office, listening to music or talk radio or whatever, and still felt that peace. We walked through an adjoining hospital corridor and I remarked on how I hate the smell of hospitals. It scares me and makes me wonder if that is what death smells like.

We waited for several minutes in the lobby. DH went for a glass of water, and I was called back. Once inside the scanning room, DH showed up just after the technician who came in quickly and announced that she would do a belly scan. No wand necessary. I held my breath, reluctant to look at the screen. She was silent for a moment, getting the scanner into position.

Time stood still for just a moment.

The tech exclaimed "Oh, there's your baby!" And then... there it was. A baby squirming around in a sac of fluid, practically showing off to us to say "I'm still here!" Perfect shape, perfect heartbeat, perfectly measuring at 13 weeks, perfectly normal. I just laid there with my mouth open, incredulous at the fact that this was actually inside my body (except for swallowing the lump in my throat). Due date is somewhere near Valentine's Day. Nothing ironic about that, I'm sure.

The front view of the face, with the baby's still-translucent skin and visible skeleton, was kinda creepy. The tech gave us several photos. The doc answered what few questions we had. The assistant took blood (for the initial chromosome screening). And that was that.

Since I was hungry again, we stopped for a breakfast sandwich. Somewhere in that next half hour I decided - I am just going to embrace hope. I know, anything's still possible. But I do take comfort in those measurements, those movements, that heartbeat, and the fact that I'm officially in the second trimester. The facts are winning the argument over my fears.

Late this afternoon, DH opened a bottle of Cava (Spanish sparkling white wine) and I enjoyed a few sips. We toasted the (near) future, and I let him finish my glass. It was a good day.

Two More Days

Less than 48 hours from now, I will know. I will know whether this pregnancy really is viable, whether the fetus is growing normally, and soon after I'll know if there are any chromosomal abnormalities.

Yeah, we decided to do the preliminary blood test to see if there's a possibility for these types of birth defects. But I will not, unless my life is threatened, have an amniocentesis. I did not come this far to pretend that the life inside me is in my hands. I know better. It will only be information - knowledge of something to pray for.

According to the Web calculators, I should be just over 12 weeks now. Nausea is minimal, though I have my days. Food is still largely the enemy when it comes to heartburn as I play Russian Roulette with various foods (armed with Tums and Pepcid). Clothes are tighter, but I don't see anything resembling "the bump" yet. Then again, I do have a few somewhat toned stomach muscles so that could be why.

I'm obsessing about bad stuff way less. Thanks Lord! Dreams are still weird, though I'm trying not to take them as seriously as I might otherwise. I'm ridiculously forgetful (drove to a party yesterday evening only to realize I had shown up a week early! Thank goodness I didn't knock on the door).

Next week my MIL comes to hang with us for a week. I'm really looking forward to it. I am hoping, hoping, hoping that DH and I will be able to deliver wonderful news to her. Just once I'd like to see the look on a loved one's face as I give the news that, despite all we've been through, we are actually going to have a live one next February.

Or, I could be saying something else. But I'd rather not think about that. It does no good to try and solve problems that don't exist.