I have to say that, physical effects aside of course, the biggest thing this pregnancy has affected in me is my faith. I would consider myself a strong Christian, and I've been lucky enough to have some very good supporters in my life to help bring me to a good relationship with Christ. But even the best of Christians can use a little more help sometimes, right?
Granted, the last many months were a big test of faith with all the problems we had, but pregnancy brings a different and more rewarding sort of awareness. Mainly, it's this sense - in a good way - of finally not being in control. For many years, one of my sources of strength has been an awareness that God does have a plan, and I've relied on the faith that even if I don't know the plan (how could I possibly? He's so big, I'm so small...) there is one. This has always helped me through the dark times, and never as much as the last year. No matter what has happened, I believe totally that some good came of it somewhere, even if I never get to see it. Maybe it was a smile that someone else needed, maybe by my strength I showed someone else that they could get through their troubles too. Whatever the outcome, I know that my suffering and my joys were not wasted. But what I realized was even with that faith, I was still thinking I had to be the strong one. My prayers were always to God to make me stronger or to give me the strength to bear whatever He sent. Good prayers, and I think not so far off track. I did get the strength (and support) I needed to get through the miscarriage, and Glen's fall, and the surgery and come out whole - or even better - on the other side. I'd like to say I thank God every day for that, but being human, I'll just say I thank God whenever I think of it.
What I found, though, was I still needed a lesson in NOT being strong. Atlanta was that lesson for me, the turning point. Actually, I would admit it was the breaking point. Atlanta was difficult in so many ways. Being away from home and Glen, being pregnant really for the first time and all the changes that happen with that, fear of another miscarriage, the "morning" (ha) sickness, and of course the work. Even now, being out of it and able to look back more objectively, I think that many of the personnel issues I faced there with the work were some of the most challenging I have met in my career. Not perhaps the top, as I felt while I was in it, but definitely up there. With all that, I just kept praying for more strength. God kept answering that prayer, but then it just seemed like more things would come up. My time would be extended again, a new complaint would be filed, I'd get promoted, I'd get dizzy, whatever. However much strength I had, it couldn't keep up. What I discovered about myself is very much what I affectionately refer to now as the superwoman complex. I had to do it all, had to be able to do it all. In truth, there really weren't many people I could ask for help, so it wasn't like I volunteered to go it alone. But in doing it by myself, I couldn't allow for failure, couldn't be less than perfect. If I was going to do it, by God I was going to do it better. Sadly, what I couldn't allow myself was the possibility of not being able to do it. I do think in one way I was at least a little smart, because I did find ways to give my body some of what it needed. I specifically made extra time to rest, I prioritized and allowed non-important things to slip, and I found ways to cut myself a break during the days to get away - but always with the goal of preserving my strength so I had enough to do everything else. It was always about that, always about how to use my strength, how to be the hero. And without realizing it, my friends and family all bought into this complex. Encouragment always centered around "you can do it", "you are strong enough to do it", "I have faith in your abilities", etc - much as you'd expect. All were meant with love, and I took them that way. But somehow they didn't help, and I couldn't even explain to myself why. What I did know was that this time I wasn't strong enough. In my heart, I knew that this time it was too much, and I didn't know what to do with that. I mean, I was doing a good job on the outside, even getting praised from work for everything. But inside I knew I was not making it. Why not? It turns out what I needed was someone to tell me it was OK to NOT be strong enough. Just that allowance that it was OK, that I could not be strong enough this time and the world would not end, no one would die, probably no one would even notice. I admit, I don't remember ever feeling like this, so I hope no one is offended reading this to think they failed me in some way by saying the wrong thing. In probably any other situation, they would have been saying all the exact right things. There was no way anyone could have understood what I most needed to hear this time (and hopefully what I don't get to the point of needing to hear again!)
In the end, though, there was just me and God. Me, the standard-issue, fearless, witty, tough, smart, beautiful, over-achieving
Fairbanks WOMAN, found herself literally on my knees, and then curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing, without any idea how to get up this time. Strength was not enough. Even physically, I didn't have the strength to get off the floor. That was the breaking moment, but also maybe a turning point in my life. Because as I was huddled there, so lost that I finally had nothing to say, finally I was able to hear it: that voice, telling me it was OK. There was no one else but God there to tell me it was OK. I didn't have to be strong. He didn't expect me to be strong, I wasn't made to be that strong. I was never made to be a hero. I was only made to be enough, and then given the faith (if I used it) to ask Him to be the rest for me. And I did. For perhaps the first time, really truly, in my life, I asked Him to be my strength for me. I know this probably sounds like a dramatic story, but I need to say this and make this distinction. I asked not to be given anything, but to be only a shell to be filled with Him, and to let Him do everything that needed to be done through me. And it was really incredible, the warm and wonderful feeling this prayer gave me. It's almost physical, like being wrapped in a warm blanket or folded in someone's arms. It didn't exactly let me off the hook to do anything for myself, but I wasn't scared anymore of failing because HE isn't going to fail - whatever He plans to do - as long as I get out of the way and let Him do it. It's such a difference, a complete difference. He picked me up off of that floor, and made me whole again. Amazingly, from that point on everything smoothed out again. Things at work almost magically resolved themselves, personnel issues were sorted out, I felt better (albeit still totally sick), and things worked out so I could go home. I can't help but think now that maybe it was all meant to happen that way for that purpose, to force me into that revelation, that step beyond where my faith was.
These days, I keep that memory and that new prayer in my heart. It doesn't always work, and some days I find myself slipping into the old superwoman ways. I'm human, so I suppose it'll always be that way. But again, with pregnancy, I've had to let go. Pregnancy by itself is not without fear, no matter how normal or healthy. It seems like there's always something - perfectly rational fear of some new pain, or totally irrational fear for no apparent reason. At one point very early I was totally convinced that my baby was dead again, and nothing Glen or anyone else could say could make me feel better until I saw that ultrasound. Except God. Again, I had to step back and let Him do it for me. Slowly, those fears are getting better. I feel her moving now, which helps, but still there are days when I wonder. But when those days happen, I stop and pray and let Him comfort me. He's taking care of her. As the miscarriage proved, there's nothing I can do. I can avoid things that I know for sure would be bad, but there is absolutely nothing I can do to make sure she is healthy and has all her parts and has her Daddy's smile. My strength has nothing to do with this. It's all up to God, and I'm OK with that now. Maybe it took Atlanta to teach me how to be OK with that.
There's a song on the radio now that I heard for the first time probably just a few days before I left Atlanta. It's by Carrie Underwood, and I cried the first time I heard it and still get teared up now. It's about a mother who is driving and her car spins on some black ice, with her baby in the back seat. She takes her hands off the wheel and prays "Jesus take the wheel, take it from my hands, cuz I can't do this on my own... I'm letting go, so give it one more chance, to save me from this road I'm on... Jesus take the wheel." Trying to do that all the time now, and so far (thump thump from inside too) it seems to be working...
Well, OK, not always *perfect*, but then again neither am I! But I did want to go on the record here saying how very much I appreciate and love my husband, and now more than ever. I'm sure I don't say it enough to him, but these past couple months especially he's been very sweet. I don't think he completely understands everything I'm going through with the hormones and aches and pains and the million emotions I have that change about every two seconds. And I'm sure he wonders what creature has possessed his wife when I start sobbing because I just dumped an entire pot of mac and cheese on the floor, as if it's the end of the world (and I might starve to death waiting for another pot to boil). But still, I notice the little things he's doing for me (or us), like setting up the dog gates so I don't have to step over a gate AND the top step every time, or holding my hand to walk me over icy or rough spots, or working with Hugger to stop her from jumping and to make sure she doesn't mind getting tugged and pulled and poked from every angle. Even as I'm annoyed because he won't let me get my steak half raw like I want it, I feel misty and warm over the fact that he won't let me. I suppose I could spend a long time listing the little things here, many of which probably wouldn't interest anyone but me, but I just wanted to say I know he's doing them for me, and I love him all the more for it. I know he thinks that I am obsessed with all things baby, which is probably true (and who wouldn't be when you are getting poked gently or just plain jabbed several times and hour???), but I am trying to share as much of this experience as I can. And I'm also trying to still just be me, the woman he married and who still loves him with all her heart.
