The End of Pregnancy

She checks me and tells me that I am almost two centimeters dilated. She's happy today. Some days she seems preoccupied or worried. I know, from having seen her in a crisis situation, that she can worry. She can be flustered.

She asks me if I'm nervous about labor, like I was with Zimrie. I'm surprised she asks, that she remembers. It's just this morning that I've realized how nervous I actually am. “I think I'm even more scared this time,” I tell her honestly. “Really?” She asks. “But it's your third. It will be so much better. Remember how much better your labor and your recovery was the second time around? This time...? I bet you don't have any tearing at all!” I smile and nod and say yeah.

“You know, I really think that the anxiety can slow a woman down. It can make the process take a little longer. I know you'd like to have this baby a few days early, just try to think about how much better it will be. It's going to be fine! Really! And just try not think about all the stuff at home that you need to do.”

I smile and nod and say yeah.

When she leaves I start to cry. With every contraction I've had, I've felt panic. Please don't let this be labor. I'm not ready!

I'm not entirely sure why I have had so much fear. So I start to think about it.

This is the anniversary of the miscarriage. This is the week of last year that I spent in pain and tears, bleeding out my last pregnancy. And I think a lot of my emotions stem from that. I know of at least a couple friends who do this as well—relive the emotions of their last year. Maybe not on the specific date, but as the weather coincides or you do the familiar things of that season or maybe it's mostly subconscious, but no matter where my thoughts are, I tend to relive my feelings from the year before.

I think that remembering that pain—which has no quick-to-be-seen purpose, makes me fearful for this pain. That, and, of course, the loss of control. I've realized that I haven't thought much about Jonah as a baby, as a person. Not that it really matters, what I imagine won't be altogether true, but it's like I haven't allowed myself to picture it fully. I keep thinking I need to be further along or that something could go wrong or that what I imagine won't happen precisely because I imagined it. In regards to delivery, which I've been convinced will end in crisis, or in regards to the baby, who, I hate to say it, I picture as a screaming, angry child who causes me strife and sleepless nights.

There's also this: As pregnancy draws nearer the end (gulp), I start to get a little bit panicky. Not just thinking of Jonah's arrival, and all the things to get ready, but feeling like I haven't fully appreciated every moment of containing life in my womb. I haven't--and could never--fully grasp the mystery and the beauty of such a thing, while at the same time, I can bemoan the hard work it makes of my body, the subtle changes, and the permanent ones.

I read an article not long ago where a woman related the scars that her body bears from bringing her children into the world to the scars of Christ. The scars are reminders of the pain and suffering that gave way to new life. She posited that perhaps, like Christ, we would wear our scars into the resurrection, because they do point us back; They are joyous things to be seen, to behold. Maybe she's right. Maybe the reminders of this pain, with all its purpose, will stay with us forever into eternity.

Pregnancy is mystical and ethereal and at the same time, very, very real. The joy and creation of new life and the pain and the stretchmarks and the knowledge that even though you give birth to life, you give birth to death as well. Living in this tension can be difficult. Crying out the fears has helped, but I'd like to give way to the positives now, too.

So yesterday, after hearing the doctor's encouragement, after talking with Seth, and crying for a good hour, I felt a lot better. It will be hard and painful, sure. But there's no reason to assume the worst. And assuming the worst will only make it harder, anyway. So, here's to the good chance that it'll be shorter, that maybe he'll come early, that maybe he'll have lots of hair or none at all. Maybe he'll be more like Asher or more like Zimrie or completely his own person who I can't even picture.

 I'd like to remember throughout the process that this pain will be long and hard, but that it'll have immediate payout. There will be a baby at the end of it. The purpose will be known and realized and full, even if what follows—sleeplessness, breastfeeding, transition—will be hard for who knows how long. But joy and relief will not be delayed forever. Amen.