Blessed is she who has believed...

The Lord works in mysterious ways. (Yes, I opened with a cliche. Humor me.) As I wrote my last blog post, "The Empty Nursery," I was unknowingly...pregnant. Yes, you read that correctly. With child. In the family way. PG. I wrote this emotionally charged, cathartic essay on the year anniversary of losing the second baby where I addressed all of the spiritual and emotional wrestling I'd had to do with faith, God, and life itself until I had finally come to the point where I accepted His will. I had prepared myself for a future with a distinct possibility of no more babies, and I was honestly okay with it. But lo and behold...Someone loves irony, and I'm so glad that He does.

For educators, Memorial Day weekend is a culmination of the entire school year because, after Memorial Day, all hullabaloo breaks out. Once we return to school after Memorial Day, it is on, as they say, like Donkey Kong. The mind-numbing, body-exhausting purgatory that is Exam Week begins and ends, leaving teachers like those stunned fainting goat things in its wake. Then we must wrap up an entire year's worth of paperwork, pack up our classrooms, and calculate final grades before we're allowed to be real people for a fleeting two month window of time. I, however, decided that the aforementioned chaos was simply not enough, and I signed on to teach summer school this past year. Needless to say, I was the kind of wiped-out-exhausted that you read about in books once the middle of June rolled around. "I think you're pregnant," Patrick said to me more than once. "OH MY GAH, NO I'M NOT. SHUT UP," I would reply, increasingly irritated each time he suggested that that was the reason for my moody, soul-deep exhaustion. I was dieting and working out. I'd lost like five pounds. I signed on to work with the flunkies at the end of the year. I scheduled a fertility workup with the OB/GYN on July 1st because we'd been trying to get pregnant for a YEAR, FOR PETE SAKE. I was not pregnant. Except I was. 

Enter Father's Day: Patrick went to work out that morning, and Lucy and I were just lazing about the house until he returned. Patrick was still being annoying and suggesting that I was pregnant. I was several days late, so he did kind of have a point, but he was still wrong, and I was going to prove it. Lucy needed to potty, so I decided that a mother-daughter tandem tinkle was the perfect opportunity to do just that. I sat the pregnancy test down on the sink as I helped Lucy do all the things you do after a trip to the potty. I wheeled around, hunched over, eye-to-sink level as I prepared to dump my daughter's waste into the toilet, and there I was...face to face with two very pink lines that had popped up in far less than the three minutes in which the directions tell you the lines will pop up. Oh, God. I always thought that if I ever got pregnant again, my knees would hit the ground, and I'd immediately erupt into prayers of thanksgiving. That's not what happened. My shaking hand sat down the Diet Coke I'd been drinking (which, coincidentally, said "Share a Diet Coke with Mom," touche), and I continued Mommy potty duty. In a stunned delirium, I heard keys in the door downstairs. "What do I do with this thing? What do I DO WITH IT???" I thought in regard to the telling test. I bounded downstairs and threw the pregnancy test into the bag with Patrick's Father's Day gift and tried not to look like I was clinically insane as he ate and finally got around to opening his gift. No small feat. After Patrick discovered his very last minute gift, he came over and hugged me. I'm sure it was not very unlike hugging a sack of grain...a pale, shaking sack of grain. "Well, how do you feel?" he asked me. "Scared." "Not excited?" "Just scared."

"Just scared" became the motto for my summer. Instead of tackling the home improvement and Pinterest projects with which I'd planned to fill the rest of June, July, and August, I lay in bed - terrified. One thing was already different about this pregnancy when compared to the last: I felt physically awful. Nausea, fatigue, malaise - I felt it all. Some days my flagging physical shape was the primary reason I stayed in bed, but mostly I stayed in bed because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't. I called my PCP the week after I found out and begged him to do bloodwork to measure my levels, but he, understandably, declined and told me to calm down and wait until my first appointment with the OB/GYN. Seeing as I had no choice, I laid in bed for the next two weeks, whispering a prayer with every breath, "Please don't let this one die, God. Please."

The six week mark came (albeit agonizingly slowly), and I dragged my nauseated self into the doctor's office. The incredibly sweet woman at the check-in window who always remembers my name despite the fact that she sees hundreds of people per day whispered a discreet yet enthusiastic "Congratulations" to me as she keyed in my information. "Thanks," I mumbled rather unenthusiastically. It was the first time that someone had said that to me this time around, and, surprisingly, I found myself instantly wishing that she hadn't. I didn't want anyone to acknowledge this pregnancy so early on, let alone get excited about it. Instead of reassuring me, it scared the crap out of me, to be honest.

My wonderful Midwife indulged me and went ahead and did my bloodwork and ultrasound at the first appointment instead of making me wait three more weeks for the second. "Everything looks perfect," she said. "That's what you said last time." "Well...I'm not sure what else to say. We can't hope for anything better at this point." As I was waiting to check out, a nurse pulled me aside with the results of my culture. I had an infection very common in pregnant women. Not to worry. A week's worth of antibiotics would clear it right up.

During the next two weeks, my sister came home for the first time in over a year. Her visit definitely gave my mind something which with to occupy itself aside from obsessively worrying about the hundred and one things that could possibly be going wrong in my uterus. I kept praying, "Dear God, if something is going to happen to this baby, please don't let it happen while she's here." We got to enjoy a wonderful two weeks together, but as my sister was literally readying herself to go to the airport and fly back to Italy, it happened: a spot. I didn't want to tell her. I tried to mask the unadulterated terror that had been unleashed by one tiny peach stain. When it was time for her to walk out the door, I broke down in wracking sobs - partly because I didn't want her to leave, and partly because I couldn't believe this was happening to me again. Once she was safely out of the house, I told my mom. I spent the rest of the weekend at her house, destroyed. I couldn't eat. I couldn't stop crying. I just wanted it to be 8:00 A.M. on Monday so that I could call my doctor's office.

They got me in right away. I barely had enough time to speed home, shower, and change out of the yoga pants I'd been wearing for two straight days. I saw the same doctor who saw me when I came in for spotting with my miscarriage the previous summer. Talk about a total mind****. "Everything looks good. I can't find a reason for the spotting," he said and sent me to ultrasound - where everything fell apart the last time. I steeled myself for disappointment. But there it was. Big. Strong. Growing. Beating. Moving. I thought I'd cry out or audibly praise God, but I didn't. I just stared at the screen, ashamed of the lack of complete and total relief the sight of my healthy baby brought me. The doctor reassured me that nothing was wrong, sometimes this happens, it doesn't always mean what it meant last time, try not to worry.

By the end of the week, the spotting had gotten worse, and I was in pain. I phoned the doctor on call during the weekend, and she prescribed me something for a suspected UTI and told me to call for an appointment first thing on Monday. Of course I set my alarm for 7:30 and just stared at my phone until the moment it said 8:00 and the office was open. Again, I was brought right in. This time I saw the doctor who delivered Lucy, which made me feel slightly better. And again, his physical exam found no evidence of any reason for my symptoms, but he did do a culture this time. He sent me to ultrasound, and again I braced myself for that feeling of all the air being sucked out of the room, but there was an even bigger, stronger, wiggling baby than the last time. Still no audible cries of joy or praises from me even though I desperately wished that were my first reaction. The doctor gave me a concrete diagnosis this time, though: the same infection for which I'd been treated three weeks before. That's okay. We'll just hit it with another week of antibiotics. Sometimes these things hang on for a while.

Cue Week 4 of the bleeding ordeal. Even though I'd seen a healthy baby each time I'd gone in, I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was going to lose the baby. Who could blame me? I'd been spotting for almost a month, my pain was getting worse. The last time I experienced this didn't turn out so well. On top of that, I was supposed to go back to work at the end of the week. I hadn't even been able to function normally because I was so preoccupied with the baby. How was I supposed to plan lessons, organize a classroom, socialize, be normal? I called the office and asked to be seen again. I was almost doubled over in pain by the time I got into the exam room. This time I saw my favorite Midwife, the one who indulges me. She also did a culture and an ultrasound. Just like last time, a healthy, growing, wiggler. I did praise God a little this time. I was so sure it would be over. And a diagnosis: the same infection that I'd had since I was six weeks pregnant was now raging by the time I was eleven weeks pregnant. She concluded that none of the antibiotic courses had worked and prescribed me a different one. Within a week, my pain was gone, and within a few more days, the spotting disappeared. Leave it to a woman, people. I went through a month of psychological and physical hell because no one thought to change my antibiotics.

While the bleeding saga may have luckily/happily/blessedly/pickanypositiveadverb ended, not all the drama had yet passed. We opted to have a more thorough ultrasound to screen for Down's Syndrome and two other serious trisomies with the perinatalist. I was only a week or so removed from my most recent doctor visit for bleeding, so I was still terrified that the wand would be placed over my belly only to find nothing. Thankfully, that was not the case. Baby W put on quite a show for us that day, and seeing all the acrobatics on screen brought just a smidge of peace to my troubled heart. Our sonographer was wonderful. She told us what she was measuring, why she was measuring it, and what it meant. Baby was moving so much that she was having a hard time capturing the measurements quickly enough. "Oh, you're bad," she said jokingly. "So bad. Won't listen to a thing. In my experience, you're acting like a boy." I left the office thinking, "Okay. Maybe this is real this time. Maybe."

A week later, the sonographer called me during my planning period. "The perinatalist would like you to come in for more thorough bloodwork to do a cell-free DNA test. The baby shows an increased risk for Down's Syndrome based on the ultrasound and preliminary bloodwork." Cue instantaneous nausea and clammy feeling. "Try not to worry. The ultrasound method is already outdated. We really should move to these DNA tests exclusively, but insurance companies won't have it. 9 times out of 10, the indications turn out to be flukes. I've got you scheduled for tomorrow afternoon." The next day, she calmly drew two vials of blood, sealed them in a box to send to the screening company, and told me again not to worry. The results would be back in 1 to 2 weeks. Surprisingly, I didn't go to pieces over this. I would rather have a sweet, healthy baby with Down's Syndrome than, well, one that dies. I started to do research on Down's Syndrome, just in case, and I prayed to God that my baby would be healthy no matter what. I could face Down's Syndrome. I couldn't face another loss.

She called me back exactly one week later. "The results are great. The baby's risk of everything you could possibly think of is extremely low. In fact, the risk of Down's Syndrome is 1 in 10,000. Would you like to know the sex?" Duh. "You've got a little girl at home?" Yes. "Well...now you'll have a little boy too." And just like that, whilst perched on the HVAC unit in my classroom at 2:30 on a Monday awkwardly angling myself toward the window to get cell reception, I learned about our son.

So. That's pretty much my first trimester in a very large nutshell. I wanted to go into detail (probably more than you wanted to know) to underscore the fact that this pregnancy has not been a walk in the park, to say the least. I thought I'd be so ecstatic if ever again those two lines appeared that I'd trail stardust where I walked, nay, floated and fart rainbows for the next nine months. There has definitely been some farting, but, so far, no rainbows have materialized as a result. I'll be sure to let you know, though.

Losing the in-between baby brought about a lot of personal change for me, as previously chronicled on this blog. My faith deepened immensely, and I was led into a beautiful church family. I honestly don't know if I've ever felt closer to God than I felt in the months after the loss; however, I don't want to paint myself as some saint, penitently and obediently praying to the Lord with every breath. Oh no. God and I had many rough days. Well, I don't think He has rough days, but you get the point. In the first six weeks after my miscarriage, no less than a dozen of my friends announced their pregnancies on Facebook. Dagger. As the weeks dragged on, dozens (non-hyperbolic) more women were added to the ranks. Sucker punch. As Christmas approached, the deluge of announcements slowed to a trickle, and I was trying to focus on other things. I was dreading the arrival of my due date in a few weeks, but I was kind of okay. Then I found out that two of my friends who'd miscarried around the time I did were pregnant. I found out on the same day. Within an hour. I felt like I couldn't breathe. Some dementor had sucked all the air out of my lungs and all the sound from the room. The only thing I could hear was the pounding of blood in my own ears. Then suddenly I wept. The ferocity with which the tears and sounds came pouring out of my body shocked me. It was like I was having an out of body experience. The rational element of me was on the ceiling, staring down at this animal element wailing and making guttural noises on the sofa. The rational element looked at this spectacle beneath and thought, "Why can't you just be happy for them? Why is this about you?" The animal element didn't answer; she just continued to weep bitterly. In truth, I was happy for them. There was a part of me that was stupidly, giddily happy for them because I knew exactly what they'd been through. It was like a victory of sorts. They did it. They got their happiness.

Have you ever lost Red Rover? You know, the game where children run as fast as they can toward a chain of other children, arms akimbo, with the goal of breaking said chain? Well, one day in the 4th grade, I lost Red Rover. All the other kids on my team had been chosen to go to the soon-to-be-victorious side except for two of us: me and my best friend. Our weak, two person chain was then quickly broken, and the breaker had to choose one of us to take back to the other side. He chose my best friend. And then there I was. Standing in the middle of the playground. The only loser in a game where I started out with lots of people on my side. It sucked. I distinctly remember being laughed at and feeling the blood turn my cheeks crimson as I bowed my head and slinked off the playground to go and sit with the teachers. Seeing my friends have successful pregnancies was like losing Red Rover. I was left there on the other side. Alone. Childlike. Sad. Defeated. I felt selfish wallowing in my own self-pity when I really was happy for them; their happiness seemed to underscore my emptiness, though, and that's what hurt the most - not their fullness but my hollowness.

After my emotional cataclysm, I continued to pray for a baby, but I prayed for patience and the acceptance of God's will. I realized that He must be trying to teach me something; I just needed to be still enough to hear it. I won't lie and say that each month that went by without a positive pregnancy test was easy, but it wasn't as hard from that point. It was like I had to be broken to be rebuilt. I thought the miscarriage had broken me enough for that, but it was there on my sofa as I wept by the light of my Christmas tree that I truly broke. Instead of praying, "Pleaseletmegetpregnant. Pleaseletmegetpregnant. PleasePleasePlease," I began to pray things like, "God, grant me a spirit of acceptance. I am thankful for the ridiculous amount of blessings you've given me that I do NOT in any way deserve. Let me see the joy in my life that I've overlooked as I've been so preoccupied with this. Please complete our family in your way, Lord, and give me patience in the meantime." Look at what He did.

I will be the first to admit: I talk a big game. I've prayed big prayers, and I've said eloquent things about God, but I have fallen short of the glory of God lately. Okay, daily. I wanted so desperately to walk confidently in faith during this pregnancy, and I haven't. I feel like I've taken an opportunity for God to show me His power, and I've squandered it. But one of the great things about God is that he works around us if He has to. I always thought that the testaments to God's glory that were the most powerful were the ones where He worked through impossible situations to make the most slim-chanced miracles happen. The loudest voices were those who were praising God in the storm, shouting out "He is good" even in the darkest places life can take us. Part of that scared me. I'd been there. Losing a baby is not the worst thing that can happen to a person, but it sucks pretty badly, to put it bluntly. But there I was with my empty hands outstretched saying, "Okay, God. Here it is. Do with it what you will." And he allowed me to help other women who'd experienced the same heartbreak. When I got pregnant this time, I thought, "I know that God will catch me if I fall from the tightrope. I know that beyond any shadow of doubt. But God, it's the falling that I can't handle." I was afraid that I hadn't done enough to deserve this baby. So I spent the summer curled in a terrified ball on my bed. As I've slowly inched out of my fog of terror, I've come to realize that while the testaments to God's glory mentioned above are powerful, they aren't the only testaments out there. Recently I was singing "Holy Spirit" by Francesca Battistelli. Let us become more aware of Your presence. Let us experience the glory of Your goodness. Those two lines are repeated over and over as the song closes. As I sang those lines, I truly thought about what they meant for the first time. Let us experience the glory of Your goodness. The glory of Your goodness? ...the glory of Your goodness... It almost brought me to tears. My voice faltered as I sang. It seems so simple, but it's honestly a concept that I hadn't equated with my life. So many things in my childhood were "storms" with my mother's health struggles, so many "storms" in college and young adulthood, "storms" everywhere. I always saw God in the storm. I never took the opportunity to see Him in the calm. I am experiencing the glory of His goodness. Look at what He's done for me. I could cry when I think about it.

Am I still scared? S***less. Do I still worry? Every day. The infection I struggled with this summer is one that's been linked to stillbirth. That scares the ever-loving crap out of me. I have requested a culture at each of my subsequent doctor visits, and that blessed, wonderful, perfect midwife does it without batting an eye each time. Praise GOD, each culture since has been negative, and I continue to pray (and ask you to do the same) that the infection stays away, that this little boy (and I) will remain healthy, and that he will be born full-term, screaming, and fat, just like his sister was. God has brought me and Baby Boy over halfway through this pregnancy. I will never feel "safe" until I am holding this living, breathing, healthy child in my arms, but I have to have faith that He will see us through. I have to believe that He will fulfill His promises to me.

To all the Mommas out there who have lost their babies: I sincerely hope that my pregnancy and this post does not upset you. I've been there. I know what it's like to see pregnancy announcement after ever loving pregnancy announcement. My point with all this is that we all get there. Really. We just get there in different ways and at different times. Your subsequent journey to baby will be terrifying because of what you've gone through, but you will grow spiritually and emotionally like you never thought possible.  I read Romans 8 like nobody's business. It's good stuff, like, really good stuff. I will keep all of you in my prayers, and I ask that you do the same for me.

Thank you all for taking the time to read my ramblings. I praise God for the mighty work that He's doing through me and ask that you pray us onward for the next 19ish weeks.

"For this child I have prayed, and the Lord has given me my petition which I asked of Him."

((1 Samuel 1:27))