The pregnant and bedridden mental
battle continued, and I was losing.
A friend from church loaded me up
with soothing, instrumental tapes, which actually worked wonders during some of
the more protracted, boring afternoons and dark, ominous nights.
But the breath-arresting panic
attacks worsened, and I eventually worked myself into an abject terror of the
choking darkness and alarm of confusion carried with it.
In the darkness, the spiritual warfare
intensified dramatically, assaulting my body with horrid physical symptoms I
couldn’t control. The attacks seemed relentless, and deliberately destructive.
As whacky as it may sound to many, I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that
something was out to destroy me.
I feared falling asleep, tearfully
anticipating a rough awakening in the middle of each night, drenched in cold
sweat, hyperventilating, my muscles contracted to the extreme. Every night it
happened without reprieve.
As nightfall arrived, I could almost
detect a hideous laughter of preparation for the ensuing attack. And always I sensed I wasn’t alone in my
room; that someone, or something, watched and orchestrated every move and every
response. It seems impossible for me to adequately convey how intensely
frightened I became of the consuming nightmare, how the anguish and anxiety
completely overtook my physical body and senses. It was more than “simply”
panic attacks, and they were so severe, I knew it could affect the outcome of
the pregnancy. That only accentuated the fear.
I considered calling Dr. Landry for
advice or help. Maybe he could prescribe a sedative, if he didn’t first write
me off as a nut. I wanted to tell Chris about them. Maybe he could protect me from
them by spending the night in my room. I didn’t do either, because I was too
humiliated and scared to disclose the horror to either one of them.
I know many highly respected people
say that the things like I experienced happen only by suggestion, but nothing
had been suggested to me; I wasn’t watching any horror movies, and I’m not a
superstitious person. Neither had I been reading anything that would have
influenced me in the direction of being tempted or harmed by anything demonic.
I tried to scare away the dark by
illuminating the room and leaving a soundless television switched on, its black
and gray lines wiggling frantically on the screen. (This was prior to
round-the-clock television programming.) But the television seemed to be as
confused as I was. And there always remained that irrational desire to bolt
from bed and walk with steely, rebellious determination around the house, to
prove to myself that I was still capable of independence and freedom. Like a voluntary prisoner who could—just
because she willed it—walk defiantly away from captivity, shaking her fists at
anyone listening.
“See,
I wanted to yell, “I’m free now, and
there is nothing you can do to stop
me from leaving this bed. You have no
power over me; it is only by my own
will that I remained in your imprisonment. I can return to that bed any
time I want to, when I am ready. You hear
that!? When I am ready! I know
being here is better for me. But right now,…I need a break. I do so need a break from this feeling of
hellish limbo.”
I pleaded with the Lord for a release
from these torturous events, to allow comfort and peace to pervade me. I didn’t
know the power I had in Christ, so I remained impotent against the attacks. I
prayed for a miracle to repair my inadequate cervix. Day after day, hour after
hour, I’d beg, “PLEASE, heal me, Lord!” I even regressed to imagery techniques,
thinking and visualizing my body into healing itself. There I was, falling back
into the familiar pattern of attempting to wish or talk myself into good
health. You know: “I am, because I believe it and said it!”
Yet, peace did swiftly follow my
almost hysteric, beseeching prayers. Because of the once-nightly psychological and
physical warfare, most of my nights were spent in conversation with God. And I had
plenty of time to listen to His answers, or to His silence. He had a totally
captive audience. And I was quickly learning to rely solely on Him, to
surrender to His will and His way of working things out. I didn’t necessarily delight
in His techniques, but an intense, twenty-four-hour-a-day course on
maturation—of fully trusting His methods, and bending to them—began.
My self was quickly running out. And
that was the objective: Total relinquishment of self, through a cascade of
perfectly orchestrated events. I was learning that His comfort is immeasurable
and His security sure. If I were to succeed at this, and experience the
fullness of joy He intended for me, it would have to be in His power, not my own. I would have to surrender all of that.
Something I wasn’t likely to do when I was well, healthy and “managing” my life
without someone’s help and guidance, thank you very much!
It was absolutely necessary to dwell
in the secret place of the Most High and abide under His shadow so I could confidently
proclaim, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God in whom I trust.” He was
teaching me, with a firm, yet velvet-cloaked hand, that in the fierce clash of
spiritual warfare, the battle belongs to Him. And He has already won.
I was coming face-to-face with God's sovereignty and my puny humanness...
I was coming face-to-face with God's sovereignty and my puny humanness...
oOo
I did enjoy one daily highlight,
however: my friend’s arrival home with Parker and the mail at lunchtime.
Eventually, though, it was just the lunchtime visits and the mail that brought
relief. Parker needed more activity and attention than I was capable of giving,
so he began staying at pre-school all day rather than come home to a mom
needing relative quiet and rest.
Parker appeared to confront the circumstances
with maturity well beyond his four-year old years. He knew Mommy would have to
stay in bed if he were to have a little brother or sister. He also knew that
even if I stayed in bed, there was a possibility that he would again have
neither. He was concerned, patient and a tremendous comfort and source of joy
for me; he always wanted to make sure that he did everything possible to “take
care of Mommy.” We attempted to alleviate the pressure on him, but we wanted to
be honest in all aspects of the pregnancy and my chances.
But he spent so much of his time
playing alone, anxiously awaiting the moment Chris arrived home so he could
latch onto him at the door. Sometimes they’d pile like playful kittens into my
bedroom and watch one of the videos friends had delivered for amusement—the
only time I could view them because I wasn’t allowed to get out of bed to
navigate my way to the tape player (VHS days) to put one in to watch.
Parker appeared to be handling the
stress so well, and we were proud of him. But now I know he felt his solitary
existence as acutely as I did my solitary confinement.
What we would
discover much later, was that he protectively blanketed his emotions for
my protection, and his fragile, sparsely woven little protection blanket would
eventually unravel and disintegrate in one significant moment.
My precious four-year-old son would
have a nervous breakdown…
________________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Finally learning the meaning of
unfathomable, sacrificial, saving love and just how far someone will go to give
it…
_______________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Andrea
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