past thoughts

This is a passage from some of my writings right after I found out I was pregnant. I'm not feeling these feelings anymore, but I thought I would share them in case anyone else is feeling--or has felt--this way.

Notice I don't say I'm pregnant. “I think so.” or “I guess I am.” or “I got a positive pregnancy test.” My excitement that rooted itself at the question of pregnancy, at the hypotheticals of the situation has waned. Some has been replaced by nerves, some by unbelief.

If I don't admit that it's a finality, a beating heart, a living life, will it not be so quick to die? Will I not be so quick to shed the tears and feel the pain and live through the turmoil.

It's not just the life that worries me. Not just the baby. It's the potential aftermath. The feelings and hormones and health issues. Trips to the doctor and depression and cycles of intestinal mishaps.

I am trying to take it slowly. To allow myself time and space for processing, for letting excitement grow, for giving the fears a place, to listen slowly, lovingly, carefully, but to know that they are not the end in themselves.

I have compassion for myself. For my soul, which has struggled these past six months in hills and valleys of emotions. It's okay if I am worried. It's okay if I feel doubt. A friend once told me that she had trouble praying for her second child en utero, having lost one before. I feel that now. The feeling of, what does it matter if I trust you? You do what you want anyway. What does it matter if it's the best thing? I don't like it. And it's still hard.

I took a test and it was negative in one minute, so I threw it away. I came back an hour later and it was a faint positive. I took two more that were faintly positive in ten minutes, but not the specified two minutes. And my last one, with the morning's first urine, was positive in the two minutes. So then I knew.

But do I know? I feel like I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting for the nurse at the health department to do the same test I did. But with her scrubs and her gloves and the sterile area, I'll feel better about it. And then the doctor's office, where I will hopefully hear a heartbeat and see a flashing light on the ultrasound. Will it be real, then?

When we find out the gender or the baby is born or I hold him in my arms? Will it be real? Will I still be afraid of losing him? Yes. Of course. I'm always afraid of losing them.

My last pregnancy I hoped for twins. This pregnancy I just hope for wholeness. For health. And I hope to have hope realized. To be comfortable in hoping again, to feel secure in the planning.

Yes, I am taking folic acid and not eating sushi, and in the back of my mind is a nursery in the guest room, and, dare I say it—girl names. But I don't feel safe to talk about those yet. To admit them without fear or disclaimers or to walk firmly on that path. I'm still stepping lightly, still mostly watching TV and crocheting and playing with the other two, because—well, who knows. Who knows that will happen or how it will go. I know the odds are in my favor. But they were last time, too. And I know that I have strength inside me and in my community and in God that will help me to endure what I need to. This tiny life is worth being excited about. This little heart, beating for however long, is enough reason for rejoicing, for smiling, for dreaming.

Telling people the news has felt like practicing a discipline. Making myself say the words. Limiting the disclaimers. Trying to align myself on the side of hope instead of the side of despair. And having the joy of others wash over me, taking on their excitement, listening to their congratulations, their expectancy, is what makes it feel real. It's what has gradually been filling in the doubts, the gaps in my heart.