That makes sense (part 2)

I talked to my therapist about my fears. After going over my historical fear of evil spirits and whatnot, she surmised that I'm in a vulnerable place right now.

As happy and miraculous an occasion that this pregnancy is, it's also bookmarked by tragedy and real fears. Not to downplay the goodness of it, just to acknowledge what it has taken to get to this point and knowing that it's not over yet. She pointed out that, rather than entertain any fears about the baby, my mind latched onto the contrived fears of a scary movie as a substitute.

In other words, demons aren't what I'm really afraid of. What I'm really afraid of, and don't want to admit out loud, is losing the baby. By chance, or circumstance, or car accident or what have you.

I exhaled. I knew she was right.

She encouraged me to keep praying, and form a bit of a bedtime ritual. That's what I'm doing. The logical part of my brain can now say "That isn't what you're really afraid of anyway, and that's okay. Go to sleep."

As for the demons, I remember that I already have the victory of the cross and that's all I need.

I have slept much better the last few nights, and I don't wake up feeling scared.

Under my skin, or things that go bump in the night

I did something really stupid for Halloween – I watched Para.normal Acti.vity. Why was this stupid? Because, even when I understood that the movie dealt with demonic activity and possession, I kept watching. As a result, I may have slept half an hour that night. I kept the nightlight on in the bedroom for several days, looking over my shoulder at the room to make sure it stayed devoid of monsters. Eventually I switched sides with DH for the next week or so, just until the other night.

Stories of this nature have a tendency to sink under my skin and creep the heck out of me for a long time afterward. Why? That's a good question. The first time this kind of creepiness creeped me out was when I first saw The Excor.cist – I was barely a teenager – and ever since it's been a fear of mine. But I think it goes back even further.

As I tried to probe my brain, I remember when I was 6-8 years old and had frequent waking nightmares. You know, the kind where you wake up and you see someone or something until you cover your head with a blanket until the next time you open your eyes, at which point the thing is gone and you realize it was never there. Oh, you've never experienced this? I have. Many, many times. With many different "people" who looked at me or walked toward me… oh sorry, didn't mean to creep you out.

Each night after seeing that stupid movie (before I switched sides with DH), I was actually afraid of going to sleep. As if I just knew I'd wake up and something bad would happen. I know, it's totally irrational. Such is the nature of fear in this case.

I make it a habit to read my Bible every night – sometimes I go through a book, others I randomly select a passage and just start reading. One thing that brought a lot of comfort to me, and I've begun to study, was reading Psalm 91 just before turning in one night. It talks about how God literally protects those who believe in Him. I knew the Lord led me to this passage specifically, as part of it says:
"4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day..." (emphasis mine)

Wow. I can think of very few times in my life when I've come across a scripture that went straight to my soul in the midst of something going on, and this is definitely one of them.

Looking back, I suspect that I had those hallucinations as a reaction to my parents' divorce (I was six at the time). I also know now that chronic lack of sleep can result in such things. But so often, my kid brain was absolutely convinced that these hallucinations really happened. So in a way, seeing movies about people getting possessed unnerved me like nothing ever has because it reminds me of waking up in the night and seeing something that shouldn't be there.

This is no way to live, especially for a Christ-follower who has inherited the victory that He won for us on the cross. So I'm on the lookout for a solution. A few days ago, I remembered my copy of Joyce Mey.ers' Battle.field of the Mi.nd and picked it up again. I was surprised at what I read (still haven't gotten through more than 1/3 of the book). She talked about how the enemy can influence our thought lives by planting wrong ideas in there and getting us thinking about negative things. She calls them mind-binding spirits, and yes they are evil. Now don't get me wrong – I am fully aware that I have my own brain and am capable of harboring bad thoughts all by myself – but this is compelling information based on biblical truths.

It was like a light was turned on in my head, and I understood that this is probably the case for me. The author, for example, had once been an incredibly negative person and had no idea that it was her thought life, rather than her circumstances, that were robbing her of any joy in life.

Sound familiar?

Her admonition: think about what you're thinking about. Refuse to let the enemy rob you of happiness by influencing your thoughts. Instead, follow the advice of Philippians 4:8 (NIV) "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

In other words, our thought lives must be intentional. Not reactionary.

Finally, I'll be sharing my experience with my therapist this evening to see if she can provide any additional insight. She's a good one for that.

"The worst is yet to come!"

Okay, nobody is saying that outright. But every time the subject of new parenthood comes up in a conversation with someone who's not a new parent the sentiment is the same.

Get all the sleep you can now, because when the baby's born...

Enjoy this time together now, because when the baby's born...

Take care of those home improvement projects now, because when the baby's born...

You think you're tired now? Just wait until the baby's born...

Enjoy your humanity and self-identity now, because when the baby's born... (okay, I'm kidding, but you get the point). Seriously. I get it. Life is about to be ripped inside out, crumbled up like a giant piece of paper, soaked in baby barf, and thrown against a brick wall so that it will never again even vaguely resemble its current condition. Do I not have enough to be paranoid about without the constant stream of admonitions of everything I will no longer be allowed to enjoy, to indulge in, to fantasize about... criminy. Give a girl a break.

I need to hear more about the miracle of parenthood. About how the change is for the better, how I'll never regret it, how I'll fall in love the moment I set my eyes on my son when they lay him on my breast in the hospital, how deep and moving and utterly profound my life will be as a parent. Does this never occur to people?

Sigh. Enough of my rant. Please return to your regularly scheduled weekday...

Who's afraid of the big bad birthing room?

That would be me.

Maybe it's the idea of pain so great I would want to inject heroin to make it stop. Or the photo lab I used to work in where, once in a while, a roll of film came through with detailed photos of a birth. Or maybe it's the complete lack of control over my own body, coupled with the thought of being bedridden with a foot-long needle in my back plus a device attached to my urethra plus an IV drip plus.. plus..

Oh man. Just the thought makes me a little queasy and makes my pulse race a bit.

Until fairly recently, a standard blood draw would make me pass out, or at least render me motionless until my blood pressure resumed normality. I would kind of freak out at my own pain, like the time I got two fingertips shut in a car door, or a pinky caught in a heavy door frame (that hurt like a sonofa).

About six years ago, I had an eye test done where the doc shined some light across my retinas to check for glaucoma. I felt okay for a minute, then suddenly I had no idea what happened to me – I couldn't tell if I was about to faint, or run to the bathroom, or barf, or all of the above. She gave me smelling salts to bring me around, and I had to have my husband come pick me up. It was a horrific experience.

I can be calm as a cucumber on the outside, but my subconscious says "hell no, we won't go!"

Yeah, so that's one thing that has intimidated me for decades about having children: Going through the birthing process. I have rationalized that, after all, it's just one day compared to a lifetime of the joy of parenthood; a rite of passage of sorts. Millions of women have done it, stretching out tens of thousands of years before me and without a needle in their backs. But on the inside, I'm freaking out. Last night I was reading through a chapter on birthing methods, coping techniques vs. medication, doulas and partner roles, blah blah.. I couldn't sleep for crap last night.

What in the world is my problem? It's not like I can avoid it – believe me, I would entertain the thought of general anesthesia if it were a possibility (and not just in an emergency).

I think I would prefer to go med-free mostly because I loathe the idea of being strapped to a bed with a bunch of crap attached me, unable to move. But I have no idea what the process will be like – will I manage it, or will I have a breech baby that demands a c-section? Will I have a reasonable labor, or will it drag on for 20-30 hours until I'm so miserable I beg for medical mercy?

This is a problem, and I need to address it sooner than later because time isn't slowing down. Sigh…

Any advice from those of you who have been there?

All control is an illusion, and there are no guarantees

This time last year, my life was in ashes. I had just completed a set of fertility tests, and before DH could go through his own tests, the Specialist called us into her office to deliver the news. I had age-related egg quality issues, and our chances of conceiving successfully on our own was… oh, let's just say next to none.

I spent months mourning, grieving, praying, looking for answers, and researching everything I could get my hands on. Add to that professional counseling, peer counseling from church, yoga, acupuncture, prayer from others, and anti-depressants.

Many months later, I experienced incredible physical and emotional healing by the Holy Spirit during a prayer session with my peer counselor. Soon after, I became pregnant.

Today, I still am pregnant: 22 weeks and expecting a baby boy in February.

I could say something pithy like "What a difference a year makes." But the big question is: What happened?

Let me tell you what I believe: I believe that God has chosen to first heal my heart from the years of fear and aching that kept me from wanting to have a baby, followed by the fear to try again and insurmountable depression in the face of a diagnosis of destruction. I also believe that God answered my prayer to conceive a child by healing me.

So what does that mean? That everything is smooth sailing for the rest of my life, that I shouldn't expect anything bad to happen, that this kid is guaranteed to be perfect in every way?

Of course not.

But it does mean something undeniably powerful and true: That God does not give up on us, that real healing is possible – emotional and physical, that there is hope beyond our circumstances, and that the end is never the end if we choose to trust God.

I also know that there are no guarantees in this life. None but one, which is the reality of God and his unchanging, transforming love for us. I also know that I cannot control these things. I can manage some things and even be successful in some areas, but ultimately all control is an illusion.

I choose to put my faith and trust in Him, and to embrace hope and let go of control, and as a result I worry less about what might happen. If something horrible does happen, I know He won't abandon me but will carry me through it.

I think it took the events of this past couple of years for me to understand these truths, and I only hope that my story gives others encouragement – even though my story isn't finished.

Multitasking Heart

First the good news: the big 20-week ultrasound was last week, and it was more or less a smashing success. I say more or less because the tech had trouble getting a good image of a couple of baby bits, so I squirmed while she dug in the wand. I have no idea how long it took - 45 minutes? But now I have sore muscles connecting my pelvis to my hips.

Anyway, I digress. She asked if we wanted to know the sex, I said yes, and she said something like "Well there's this thing here between the legs".. I'm thinking yes - it's a dash in a snowstorm - so I said "What is it?" and she kindly pointed out that it's a penis. I felt just slightly silly (but later learned that DH couldn't tell either so we can be ignorant together!).

So yeah. Somewhere around Valentine's Day I'm gonna give birth to a boy.

Me. Give birth. Have a baby. I'm actually pregnant and it's not going away. I feel him bumping around in me, and see (and feel) my body changing rapidly.

I am blown away by this every day. When I thank Jesus for this amazing blessing that I can barely comprehend, I start to cry (usually at a time when I can't like in the car, at work, or outside walking).

Meanwhile, DH is awake at 3 a.m. most nights trying to figure out all the details of the parenting universe while I toss and turn trying to figure out how to stay comfortable long enough to sleep more than half an hour at a stretch.

I truly do not understand how any woman can honestly say she loves being pregnant. Emotionally it's a variety of wonder, terror, and joy. Physically it's a major pain in the ass. But it has to be worth it, right? Just kidding. Sort of.

Rather than ruminating over the complexities of parenthood (which makes my brain go numb), I can't think more than six months ahead. I'm debating what kind of childbirth I really want to embrace. The epidural is fine, though I truly loathe the idea of having a footlong needle stuck in my spine while my pee drains into a bag. Part of me truly wants to feel the act of giving birth, though. Like somehow being numb from the waist down will disconnect me from the experience a bit.

My coworker used the hypnobirthing method with amazing success, which makes me wonder: could I do it? She said it was definitely not pain free, but she was able to manage it and stay calm. She was in labor for all of six hours. Okay, I don't think that means I'd have the same experience but I gotta wonder if there's really something to this. Obviously there is. I will do research.

And now the bad news. My grandmother is dying. She suffered congestive heart failure the day before my ultrasound. She's apparently conscious now but isn't connected to reality at all. I wish so much that I could be at her side, even though she'd probably not know me, and just pray and be there. Death isn't new to me: I've lost a great grandmother, grandfather, and other grandmother not to mention a couple of uncles. I have held a bedside vigil. I don't wish her to recover - her life has dwindled to medication and the white walls of a nursing home while her mind is trapped in the prison of dementia - I wish for God's mercy to end her suffering and bring her home. God's will be done.

So my heart vacillates between joy and sadness, hope and longing, the future of my son and the past of one of my mothers who helped raise me. Yes, it's the cycle of life. No beginning comes without something else ending, does it?

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!