A funny thing
happened when I finally decided to slow down, remove Parker from preschool, and
learn the fine art of how to be a wife and mother. I relaxed. Really r-e-l-a-x-e-d.
And so did Parker and Chris.
Parker finally stopped asking all of
those morbid, rapid-fire questions regarding my health, his health made a miraculous improvement, and Chris seemed to
like being home more because edginess and anxiety no longer reigned supreme
in the house. The family atmosphere meter registered somewhere between
happiness and contentment, all of the time. And, to Parker, all was finally
right with the world. He had his mom’s full attention and we spent hours
sprawled on his bedroom floor overseeing the function of an extensive Lego
airport.
We even started taking a three-day
vacation every month, and launched our family’s love of train travel by riding
the Amtrak rails to Santa Barbara one weekend. We felt like a thriving family again.
And I got the first inkling that my
emotional and spiritual healing had made progress when the question of trying
again to have another child started rattling around my brain.
Should I, could I, would I? How does
Chris feel? Would Chris even want to try? Is he finally ready to discuss it?
It turned out that Chris had healed
a lot emotionally and spiritually, too, because he was finally able to discuss it. When I asked him how he felt about
it, he said he was interested, and ready
to try again.
“Well, do you remember what you said
to me when I was lying in bed with Victoria, receiving treatment for
my severe morning sickness?” I asked him tenuously.
Chris blinked in response.
“You said to me, ‘I don’t know about
you, but if something happens to this pregnancy, I’m not going to want to go
through this again.’”
Chris blinked again, then nodded
slowly. “I do.”
“Are you positive you want to try
again, then?” I nudged. “Absolutely sure?
Because I’m not going to even attempt to have another baby if I’m going to be a
single parent again, with you working on getting some other business venture
off the ground, while I’m going through a possibly tenuous pregnancy, raising
Parker pretty much on my own, and holding everything together around here. It’s
not fair to Parker or me; and I won’t do it. It cost us way too much last
time.”
My words were greeted with a moment
of thick silence before Chris responded. “I
know. And I’m
ready, and I’ll be here. We should try again.”
“Even in spite of the high
possibility of my having another placenta previa?” I didn’t have to tack on the
line, “I might die this time, you know. Are you ready to confront that
possibility?” although I knew both of us were thinking the same thing.
He took a deep breath as I tried to
read his eyes.
“I’m ready. We should try.”
We sealed our pact with a hug and
kiss. And once again I went to the Lord on my knees.
“God, am I in Your will, here? Are we in Your will? I want Your will to be
done, not mine. I’m prepared to give everything up to You.” Then I sneaked in a
request for a smooth, uneventful, easy and enjoyable pregnancy, like Parker’s
had been. Yet even as I asked for all of that, I knew in my heart that if I
weren’t granted those pleasures, God would see me through it. He would not
forsake me, in either a difficult pregnancy—or another loss.
Saying those things in prayer were
altogether different from outwardly displaying the peace and confidence those
confident words implied. When Chris and I actually put our words into action, I
rapidly liquefied into a jelly-like human amoeba.
The abdominal pain, from which I
suffered since my pregnancy with Victoria, increased. I started suffering what
seemed like heart palpitations and rapid heart rate episodes accompanied by an
annoying fainting sensation. Gall bladder attacks emerged as inescapable
post-meal assaults. The doctors tested me for thyroid disturbances, gallstones,
heart problems, scar tissue and aortic aneurysms. I received a thorough
scouring over by an ultrasound technician, donated blood for analysis, wore a
heart monitor for twenty-four hours, and had one of those lovely lower
gastrointestinal enemas scheduled so they could take a digestive system peak.
Meanwhile, during this three-month
medical marathon, Chris and I attempted to verify our fertility during the monthly opportunity window. And that became an emotional, physical and
spiritual burden. With each unsuccessful attempt, my heart plummeted and
depression crept in like dark, persistent clouds smothering our hopes—until the next
month’s opportunity window flipped over on the hormonal calendar, and we
psyched ourselves up to try again.
While we kept the home fires lit, the
medical test results rolled in. All but one returned with a “normal” judgment.
The abnormal blood test showed an increased potassium level, which may have
been the culprit behind my heart palpitations. The highly scientific diagnosis:
Cut down on the vast quantities of bananas and banana bread I consumed.
In my anxiety, I’d driven my body
into another steady state of constant panic and fear, and the stress had triggered
a variety of illnesses. My bodily systems were in overdrive, unable to
equilibrate and function properly; unable to maintain what physiologists and
doctors call homeostasis—the happy status quo the body loves to maintain, for
all systems to function properly.
While unenthusiastically awaiting my
lower GI enema test, it became evident to me during the first week of August of
1994, that I might be pregnant. With glee, I canceled the test—not allowed in
pregnant women due to the body-assaulting radiation—and nibbled my lip until
the magic time arrived to perform a pregnancy test. Being the impatient type, I
headed to the store to purchase one of those over-the-counter, do-it-yourself
models. (Back then, those pink line, “yes,” blue line, “no” wands had just
become readily available in the grocery stores, and most women still sojourned
to the doctor to provide their mid-stream-only test sample and fork over their
co-payments to have the test read by a nurse. With only two to three weeks
having transpired since possible conception, I suspected the results were
likely to be inaccurate, or false, chucking my emotions right back in the
depression basket.
After pacing the bathroom floor for
the prescribed waiting time, I closed my eyes, sucked in some air and then peeked
apprehensively at the indicator.
I blinked. Then I readjusted my
vision and squinted at the wand protruding from my clenched hand, which was shaking
spastically in front of my peering eyeballs.
Pink
lines.
Positive pink lines!
A firestorm of emotions ripped
through me. Elation. Fear. Apprehension. Ambivalence. Yet thrill out-muscled
the others and emerged the victor. Giddiness stretched my lips into an
ear-to-ear smile and vision-clouding tears dribbled down my cheeks. I kneeled
on the bathroom tile and choked out, “Thank you, God! Thank you…”
Then my analytic mind kicked into
gear. “Better get official test results from Dr. Landry before telling Chris,”
I mumbled to myself. “Their high-tech equipment will provide a firm diagnosis.”
I bounced, light-hearted through the
day and managed to keep my secret through the night. The following morning, I
waited on edge for Chris to leave the house and then called Dr. Landry’s
office. Thankfully, they ushered me into an appointment that afternoon. After
filling their cup, re-screwing the lid and gingerly setting it into the
prescribed lab tray, I returned to the waiting room to jiggle my legs in
anticipation of a verdict. Finally, the smiling nurse poked her head around the
waiting room door corner and escorted me to Dr. Landry’s officer, where he sat
immersed in some charts.
Dr. Landry looked up, invited me to
sit down, offered grinning “Congratulations,” instructed me to buy seasickness
bands for the impending morning sickness and wrote out a prescription for
pre-natal vitamins. Then he sent me home, “to relax.”
Relax!?
How would that happen? I o-o-z-e-d
euphoria and made mental plans to surprise Chris with the news Saturday night,
when we had a scheduled date to celebrate our eleventh wedding anniversary.
That was three days away. I’d have to keep my secret stuffed away until then
and avoid donning the affectation of a Cheshire cat.
What
will he say, I wondered. Will he be
excited? Stunned? Self-satisfied?
I didn’t know what the future held, but,
for that sweet, adrenaline-infused moment, I was going to soak myself in the
supreme joy of knowing God was taking us down this road—one more time.
_________________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Fleeting joy and broken hearts…
_________________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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