I hate being pregnant. I think my contempt for pregnancy grows with each pregnancy. I hate what it does to my emotions-- more adequately put, I hate that it makes me unstable. I hate peeing when I laugh. I hate peeing when I sneeze. I hate peeing when I cough. I hate peeing every 25 minutes. The kicks. Some women love feeling the baby kick and move. I think it's the strangest thing on earth. Especially when you feel it in several different places all at once-- especially when you feel the baby kick through your bellybutton, your side, and your.... ahem... cervix. I hate that everything that makes you a girl gets swollen, including your emotions and your illogicalness. I hate the cravings. I hate feeling starved and stuffed at the same time. I HATE craving icky foods ALL THE TIME. I hate not being able to breathe. I hate not being able to see my feet. I hate that shaving my legs is more like running a 5K. I hate that MORE weight loss is looming ahead. I HATE having to lose the same blooming 35 lbs every 18 months. OMG.
I miss feeling comfortable in my own skin. I miss clothes that flatter. I miss my ass... because somehow what used to be one of my best physical qualities is now swallowed up by a 45 inch basketball belly and 14 lb saggy boobs and 22 inch thunder thighs. I miss pretty dresses. Not that I got to wear them with kids, but I miss them nonetheless. I miss running. I miss breathing. Without huffing and puffing. I miss painting my toenails. I miss coloring my hair every 8 weeks. I miss confidence. I think I lost it when I had Aiden. Most all of it. I suppose I had some to spare, so not totally a bad thing. I miss tank tops that don't make me look like an *actual* tank. I miss sleeping. I miss *regular* nightmares. I miss feeling attractive. I miss being able to think straight. I miss being able to tie my shoes. Without having to sit up in between feet. I miss snuggling in comfort.
But in the end, it was all worth it. Because I love babies. I LOVE babies. LOVE them. I love to hold them. All the time. I love to snuggle them. I love to smell them. Even when it's not so pleasant. I love to take way too many pictures of them. I love to nap with them. I love to dress them. Put them in the wrap and go for a walk. I love to watch them grow. I love to watch them learn how to sit up. I love to watch them learn to play. To roll. To crawl. To walk. To dance. I love to watch personality unfold. I love to watch them grow. It is hard. It is tiring. It is sleepless. It is daunting at times. But I love it.
And I look in the mirror and think. I walk up the stairs and barely breathe and think. I watch Kipton 'dince' enthusiastically to whatever music he can find... and I think. I watch Aiden and Kipton play and I think. I look at the baby pictures of the boys and I think. I see a family of five and I think. I look in the mirror and I think. I hold a newborn baby and I think. I see pictures of new babies and I think. I see other pregnant women and I think. I read the email subject "Your Pregnancy Week #: (40-#) To Go" and I think. I read updates of pregnancy complications and I think. And I look in the mirror. And I think.
I think. I think about silent nights. I think about 14 lb saggy boobs with no purpose. I think about a silent delivery. I think about an empty car seat. I think about being 35 lbs overweight with nothing to show. I think about 29+ weeks of pregnancy and an empty cradle. I think about the doctors and nurses taking him away. Not to the NICU. Away. I think about lowering a casket into the ground. With my Everett in it.
I TRY to think about the joy of just being able to hold my baby when he's born. I TRY to think of what he might have been like if he didn't have so many birth defects. I TRY to envision what our life with 3 boys would be like. I TRY to think about just being happy to hold him. I TRY to be thankful for the moments we might have with him alive. I TRY to think about the pictures I want to have taken upon his birth. I TRY to think about snuggling him every second I have. I TRY to imagine what he's going to look like. I TRY to think about his sweet little hands holding my finger.
Then I think about the other possibilities.
What happens if he defies the odds? What happens if he lives? How severe will the mental retardation be? Will there be any physical deformities? Will he be able to breathe on his own? Will he have to have feeding tubes? Will he really have a life? Will he recognize anyone? Anything? Will he have a personality? Will he be able to sit up on his own? Will he have to have elimination tubes? Will I be able to hold him? Will I have to love him through an incubator for months? What if he lives? Is it really living? And how do you decide?
How do you decide which family members to protect? How do you decide which family members *deserve* your attention? How do you... pick? We talked about it last night. Keith has decided. Wholeheartedly. Without question. Keith says we have to protect our family. We have to think about our boys. We have to protect our marriage. We have to protect our family. And I cry. Because how is Everett *not* a part of our family? How is he *not* one of our boys?
And yet I am reminded, there are some things worse than death. I hear more and more personal testimonies about this. I know many will disagree. But some things ARE worse than death. Keith told me of one his co-workers' family that had a son who was not 'supposed' to live after birth more than a few hours. He lived 40 years. Never able to sit up alone. Mental capacity of a 6 month old. Completely bedridden. Unable to communicate. Unable to express anything other than basic need. Is breathing really life? Is a beating heart really life? Is it simply SELFISH to force that existence onto a precious soul?
We will not be able to financially afford his life if he defies the odds. We were told by two doctors that the thought was jumping the gun. We were told by 2 doctors that we should anticipate holding our baby while we could. We have been told that we should not expect a full day of life. But What if?
In less than 40 months of marriage, 46 months of KNOWING each other, we've been under a constant onslaught of stress and difficulty. Pregnant before we got married. Preemie baby. 21 days in the NICU. No job for me. Two jobs for Keith to barely keep us afloat for a year. Another pregnancy. Full term this time, but a baby that doesn't sleep. For 18 months. Me teaching college at night. Keith working all day. Putting the VERY young boys down alone every night. Me not getting home until 10. Not sleeping. Keith started grad school, an accelerated program. No more teaching for me. Means no income to speak of again. Seeing patients in the house for 2 1/2 years with the boys around. Not sleeping. Starting an office. Keith quits grad school so I can start the office. COMPLETELY unplanned pregnancy. Pregnancy with a bleak outlook. I'm not sure we could handle the stress of Everett living without a complete miracle. Add in that we'd STILL be living on Keith's salary and my student loans aren't going anywhere just because my life has taken a ton of twists and turns. I'm not sure we'd make it on many levels.
The joy of pregnancy is a baby. There's nothing else enjoyable about it in my book. How do you embrace "I knit you together in your mother's womb" with joy and peace while you wait for your baby to die in your womb? How do you find comfort in "For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future" when life is so damn riddled with pain? How do you reconcile "fearfully and wonderfully made" with "incompatible with life"? How do you feel comfort when nothing is comfortable? The only redeeming thing about pregnancy is holding your baby and watching him grow. Will we get that chance? If we do, will it really be watching a baby grow? or is it watching a body age? Is there a difference? Does it change anything? How does it not change everything?
Thankfully peace is different than comfort. Peace now comes in waves. Perhaps even more intermittent as the pregnancy continues. Not what anyone wants to hear, I know. I should be raving of peace and comfort and a God with a plan that is higher than my thoughts. But right now, I'm just a Mommy who is losing her baby today. Right now, I'm a Mommy who just wants to rock her baby to sleep for a few hours. Right now, I'm a Mommy who doesn't want to plan a funeral for her baby. Right now, I'm a Mommy who doesn't want to think about what delivery is going to be like. Not because of the pain-- been there, done that-- but because I'm terrified of how to prepare for a delivery with only one painfully sad outcome predicted at this point.
I'm well aware and believe that God provides comfort, counts my tears, and hears my sorrows, but right now I'm short sighted. And I hate being pregnant even more than I ever have. Because there are no booties to pick out. There are no newborn outfits to pick out for home coming. There are registries. There are no stockpiles of newborn and size 1 diapers. There are no nursing bras. There is no cradle. There is no car seat.
There is only fear. Hurt. Longing. Pain. Frustration. Confusion. Devastation.
But I know it will come. The comfort. The blessing. The peace. The bigger picture. It will all come.
But not today. Because right now, I'm still a little short sighted.
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