Pregnant and Bedridden: Weekend Diversions and Chipping Away at Pride

           Another month was about to go into the history annals. As the last weekend in January approached, my excitement meter ticked higher. Even though I was usually still by myself in the bedroom on Saturdays and Sundays, the weekends became pleasant diversions from the boring weekday routine. I guess it was just nice knowing that I wasn’t alone in the house, and those voices filtering through the house and ringing off the walls soothed my psyche.

           

            Parker, never a Saturday morning cartoon-type, would bound downstairs and snuggle next to me to briefly watch the latest in floozy entertainment and junk food commercials. It was the commercials to which he seemed most attracted. The commercials displaying epicurean kiddy goodies that never passed through the doors of our home. Goodies he convinced himself he’d perish without.

           

            Fortunately, he disliked most of the animated shows, because they were “too strange and scary,” and he eventually grasped the sales pitch formula after my repeated explanations about their motives.

           

            After an hour or so, back upstairs he’d bound to resume his intense marathon bouts of constructing Lego airports, fire trucks, buildings, and innumerable creations tumbling uninterrupted from his imagination.

           

            Being the sensitive, concerned type, I think he really only came down to keep me company for a while. And I was grateful.

           

            Sunday mornings were highlights of the week, when I’d watch the morning lineup of television evangelists, particularly Dr. Charles Stanley. I so very much missed attending church services and felt guilty about not being able to maintain weekly, corporate worship. But Dr. Stanley and his messages brought me renewed hope and promise, and He introduced me to a God I hadn’t heard about in a very long time. (Or if I had been told about Him, I hadn’t been listening very well.) A God with perfect ideals and lofty expectations for His children. He introduced me to a loving, uncompromising God who is always there for me. A God who never forsakes His own, who is eternally and perfectly faithful, and intensely personal—if one allows Him to be Lord over their life.

           

            I started to learn my way around the Bible, and one day I “happened” to swivel my radio dial to a local Christian station. Some of the programs I found offensive, since I wasn’t in the mood, or ready, to be “preached at.” I certainly didn’t think I needed anyone telling me how I should be living my life. Although I didn’t need “saving,” I certainly needed the next step in discipleship: biblical instruction on godly living.

           

            I was still picking and choosing according to my comfort zone—like a child carefully examining a candy display case, thinking, counting out his limited pennies to spend, carefully selecting and pointing out his choices. My flesh wasn’t yet ready for all the truth. And the term “lordship” rankled my pride and stiffened my neck hairs, not to mention what the terms “submission” and “denial of self” did to me.

           

            Denial of self! As a competitive athlete, I’d been trained to apply heroic efforts to positioning, validating and asserting my self! And to compound that, I’d grown up in the have-it-your-way (actually, fight vehemently for your way), and feed-your-ego-and-bolster-your-self-esteem-any-way-you-can generation. We didn’t possess a techie Gen X, Y, Z or Millenials moniker. We were officially christened “The Me Generation,” and there was a good reason for that title.

           

            And, as so many believers still nursing on spiritual baby food, I was content to suck on that bottle and mix it with the flavoring of the world’s wisdom.

           

            I did manage to read some Christian books my dad shipped to me, about the history of Christianity following Jesus, but that lying-on-my-back-holding-a-heavy-book-over-my-head-to-read act never lasted very long. My arms always gave out. Even lying on my side and propping the opened book up next to me sent my eyeballs into figure eight patterns.

           

            Yet slowly, consistently, the dormant desire for more knowledge of the faith I professed to hold—and the cornerstone of that faith, Jesus Christ—wormed its way to my heart’s surface and my soul’s core. The world of complete truth was opening up to me, like a curtain slowly gathered back to let the sunshine in. And it was now uncluttered by the “truth” of my Jehovah’s Witnesses friends because their visits had to be canceled due to my precarious condition.

           

            The brilliant silver lining of my existence: Just God and me in His classroom.

           

            Truth. Real truth. That’s what I needed. And I now know that I wouldn’t have gone searching for it unless I wasn’t prodded firmly into a position—through utter weakness and surrender—to seek it.

           

            As I’ve stated so often, God had me right where He wanted me, right where I needed to be for Him to get my undivided attention and shape me into a vessel the way He wanted to shape. To slap my human clay on the spinning pottery wheel, stick me in the fire to burn off the dross and shape me into something beautiful, something He could be proud of. Something He could hold up and say, with a satisfied smile, “Well done!” Something that perfectly reflects Him.

           

            Slowly, methodically, day by endless day, He was dismantling that stubborn Me Generation pride, without me even realizing it.

oOo

           

            Have you ever wondered what’s going on in your life? Especially when not-so-great things are happening? When life gets tough. When the bottom of it has dropped out. When there’s no crack in the clouds that seem to stretch endlessly permanently on in the dark sky.

           

            I’ll give you an early heads-up on what I learned from all of this mental pain and physical torture: God’s in the vessel shaping and pruning business. Neither of which are comfortable.

           

            Ever watch a master jeweler shape a gorgeous piece of jewelry? A one-of-a-kind masterpiece? The metal doesn’t look like much when he starts. First, he sketches a design on paper or computer. Then he makes a wax model or mold for a template. He melts, fires, bends, (often with sharp, needle-nosed pliers) and snips, shapes and grinds and polishes, removing every nick, burr and flaw. Then he applies a brilliant rock that’s also been cut and highly polished. He's meticulous in his work. It’s labor intensive, time consuming and often slow. But the result is stunning, and often worth millions.

           

            It’s priceless.

           

            Just like you.

           

            What I learned was to ask, especially in the middle of pain, heartache and the unknown: “What are you trying to teach me here, God?” What do you want me to learn from this? Teach me now, not later!”

           

            I’ve learned to lean into whatever’s going on, to pick God’s brain for answers. To reason with Him, as He calls us to do. Instead of resisting and fighting, I want to walk right alongside Him on the journey, stuck to His side. Learning, growing, becoming one with Him. Absorbing His knowledge and wisdom like an ocean sponge soaks up sea water.

           

            It’s not always easy. There’s so much that gets me, and my mind, sidetracked.

           

            But living that way helps take my focus off of me and lay it squarely where it should be—on God.

           

            And that reminds me on which piece of the jeweler’s loop I’m stationed.

           

            And that quickly reminds me that He is the Master Craftsman.

           

            And His designs are always original and precious.

           

            And exquisitely beautiful!

           

            Like you.

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NEXT WEEK: Superbowls and simples pleasures…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

            

Pregnant and Bedridden: When It Rains, It Pours

           
           When it rains, it pours.

           

            I usually like rain. Actually, that’s not true.

           

            I LOVE rain! Sheets and sheets of it. The clap of thunder; the scorch of lightning splitting the sky, electrifying the atmosphere and sending a monstrous light zipper through the darkness. The sound of power and the reverberating echo that bouncing from cloud to earth then back to cloud.

           

            But I don’t like rain when it’s symbolic for acid-like, relentless, heartbreaking, character-testing events. Hailstones battering you, stinging water streaks burning your skin. Nowhere to run for shelter; no escape. Completely exposed to the elements.

           

            When that happens, I want to peel back the sky, climb the highway to heaven and perch myself on top of the clouds instead of being trapped beneath them, where I’m pummeled by their unrelenting fury and abuse.

           

            When it rains, it pours. 

            My heart and body were being chucked a deluge.

  

           

            
            Dr. Landry’s cervical stitch pulling set off a retaliatory chain reaction in my body.

            
            Later that afternoon, following my appointment with him, my digestive system reacted violently, and the baby plummeted farther into my pelvis. Physical torment emanated from all directions. The pain’s severity left me shaky, barely able to make the three-feet walk to the bathroom and the return trip to the sofa sleeper. I couldn’t disengage myself from the stooped-over posture my body now seemed permanently locked into. I wasn’t even able to dress myself. When Chris arrived home that evening, he had to dress me.

           

            How would I survive forty-nine more days of this? My plummeting heart shed the stopped up tears I wouldn’t allow my eyes to unleash. I couldn’t afford to go that far.

           

            Seven more weeks? Impossible.

           

            And the following day didn’t bring relief. In fact, it arrived bearing another yeast infection. Dr. Landry had prescribed one, heavy-duty pill for the last one, and I needed to put in a call to him for another tablet. Red-hot pokers burned me internally. Thankfully, a round of cold washcloths took the edge off some of the inflammation.

           

            My mouth felt as though it had become a cotton ball storage facility and nausea threatened again. From head to toe I felt twisted, wrung out, pummeled and spent. Bored, sick, emotionally and physically tattered.      

           

           

            And I wasn’t the only one suffering. Another illness now consumed our family’s energies.

           

            My precious Shetland sheepdog, Beau, had been hospitalized on intravenous therapy due to kidney and liver inflammation and dehydration. Since his recent teeth-cleaning and neutering—a surgery I let our vet talk me into in spite of my deep reservations about having it performed on an eleven-year old dog with a weakened liver—he seemed to be in a persistent state of discomfort. My once vital, active dog was rapidly deteriorating before my eyes. I knew he wouldn’t survive much longer, but I begged God to sustain him until I was back on my feet. Losing him while I was bedridden was a thought I couldn’t confront. Not then. I needed to hold and caress him once more.

           

            His death would devastate the entire family.

           

            I desperately needed his continual presence in my room, or in the bathroom next to me where he seemed to gain some modicum of comfort lying on the cool tile floor. I hung onto his unbroken loyalty and the consistency he’d given me unconditionally, faithfully for eleven-and-a-half-years. My heart already ached with the grief of his passing. I knew it was inevitable and would be soon in coming.

           

            So, even while mentally battling intermittent contractions and pain, I spent most of the remainder of that day arranging for Parker to be taken to the doctor (he had also gotten sick) and for Beau’s special food to be delivered. I orchestrated it all from my worn out bed.

           

            And then Chris arrived home, exhausted, sick and spewing complaints. His attitude flicked me past my breaking point, and the early evening dissolved into a heated argument.

           

            And I finally allowed myself a brief release of tears. Actually, there was no allowing about it. I don’t think I could have contained them even if I’d wanted to and screwed up a heroic effort to keep them damned up.

           

            But they only lasted a minute before I mentally slapped myself back into focus. No cracks are going to erode my veneer! I wouldn’t let his attitude affect me. I couldn’t let it affect me.

           

            Defiantly, I stood, walked five steps to the bedroom door and closed it, To shut something out, whatever that “something” was. I needed to be alone. (As if I wasn’t alone enough.) Chris clomped off to the drugstore for more medicine and liquid food for me.

           

            After he returned, and before dragging himself upstairs to go to bed, he softly knocked on my door, entered at my invitation, and walked toward my bedside. With a gentle voice, he apologized, and, once again, we were restored.

           

            Just like that.

           

            We couldn’t afford not to be.

           

            If there was one thing this journey was doing, it was maturing us. With all of the swirling turmoil, we had to keep our lifelines to one another in good condition, our focus firmly centered on our purpose. Nothing, especially our pride, could be a permitted obstacle.

           

            The stakes were too high—for all four of us.

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NEXT WEEK: Pleasant diversions and faith growing…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Pregnant and Bedridden: Riding the Tide and Going for Broke

Copyright 2012 Andrea Arthur Owan 

           
           On January 25, I had an early morning appointment with Dr. Landry. Although I looked forward to washing, dressing in real clothes, and venturing outside into the sweet spring air, apprehension about walking out of the house—down the front steps and then climbing into our van—rattled me. I wasn’t thrilled about what I’d have to do when we arrived there, either: Walk across the parking lot, ride the elevator, go through the undressing routine, get examined and then reverse the process to get home. It all seemed way too risky.

           

            As much as I hated the confinement of my bed, it had become a safe, familiar haven. My established routine seemed successful. My brain and body were comfortable with it. Breaking it might upset the emotional or physical tightrope I walked. Chance taking had vacated my vocabulary.

           

            But I went through the routine, spent the two-way ride stretched out in the back seat of our van, and was delighted—and relieved—to hear Dr. Landry pronounce that the baby was growing and gaining weight. He seemed genuinely pleased with the progress. The measurements indicated I was, once again, carrying a long, skinny baby. When every ounce of weight gain or development centimeter means a better chance of survival, every change—no matter how miniscule—brings hope. The kind of hope that sweeps your sentiments to the crest of an emotional wave you ride, until the wave levels out and you wait for the next swell to carry you along, hopefully in the direction you want to go.

           

            Like an ocean.

           

            Sometimes the ocean remains flat for interminably long periods of time; nothing visible in the horizon to anticipate. It’s what beach and ocean people refer to as, “Calm.”

           

            At other times, the water upsurge occurs so rapidly and continuously that you can’t decide which breaker to take.

           

            And often the water simply rises gently and effortlessly, in tranquil, methodical, undulating repetition, quietly coming ashore without a climactic billow. No foam. No spray. No side effects. Easy.

           

            But occasionally the relentless, repetitive pounding of the surf overcomes your physical ability to withstand the curl, and you lose your sense of direction. You end up thrashing around in a swirl of cold, unforgiving turbulence and sand.

           

            When you’re standing on the shore, waiting apprehensively—or excitedly—for the big one, you forget that all waves coming in usually get you going in the same direction. They usually bring you into shore. Eventually.  But your choice of which wave to ride, or lack of choice, can be critical to your survival. The choice may get you to your destination in one piece, or broken.

           

            Successful wave riding is often like life. Sometimes you don’t have a choice. You just need to take what’s given to you on any particular day and ride with it. Take what is given you and realize that there’s a purpose in the endless flatness of it; the gentle repetitiveness of it; the strength and size of it; or the unpredictable confusion and tumultuousness of it.

           

            The thing to remember is that God demonstrates His power and glory in all of it. And if we learn to lean into that power and glory, and not fight it, we will be swept along on His grace.

           

            We need to earnestly seek Him in the mundane as well as in the pain and confusion. He’s always ready to carry or guide us to safety and the security of His shore, although His destination may be entirely different than ours.

           

            I also learned as gymnast that if I trusted my spotter and didn’t hold back—if I went for broke—I could soar! It was when I flinched, or “choked,” that I usually failed miserably. Or experienced serious physical injury. There was never an in-between.

           

            There couldn’t be.

           

            Once you committed, you couldn’t—shouldn’t—turn back. The potential for serious damage was too high and the results too costly.

           

            I had committed to this pregnancy even before becoming pregnant. Bailing out would have been emotionally, physically and spiritually catastrophic. God, not I, was going to decide when this ride would end. I would just have to sit on the crest, waiting and watching.

           

            I was riding on a high crest of elation throughout most of the day after that visit with Dr. Landry, until the afternoon when tiny blood spots appeared.

           

            My heart rate spiked. My thoughts stumbled and stuttered. This must be it! Call Dr. Landry. He told me to call him if there was any bleeding. I quickly dialed his office and waited anxiously for the return call, staring at the phone as if glaring at it would make it ring.  

           

            “How much blood is there?” he asked, rather too calmly when the call came.

           

            “Just a couple of spots.”

           

            “Any more since you called me?”

           

            “No, there doesn’t seem to be.”

           

            “Any contractions?”

           

            “No.”

           

            “I’m not surprised.” Gee, I’m so relieved he’s unconcerned. “I was tugging on your stitches pretty hard this morning,” he continued. What was he doing that for? Can’t he leave those things along? “I wanted to see how well they were holding.”

           

            “So…it’s nothing I should be concerned with?” Who am I kidding! I’ll be a nervous wreck no matter what he tells me.

           

            “Not unless the bleeding increases and you begin to have contractions with the bleeding. It would have to be more significant bleeding than what you’re describing to me. A lot more. And continuous.”

           

            “Okay, Dr. Landry. Thanks for calling. I’ll hang in there. Seeing the blood made me pretty nervous.” There’s that familiar, creeping feeling of over-reactive, embarrassment.

           

            “No problem. Everything looks good. Remember, it’s an insignificant portion of your life right now, with so much riding on what you are doing.” Ah, the pep talk again. “You have to remember that you are an incubator for your baby. The baby is in the best place it can be for development; you are doing the best thing you can do.”

           

            “I know. No what ifs, no doubts, no chances. This is our final attempt.”

           

            Just please don’t pull on my stitches again, I thought while hanging up the phone. You scared me to death! Next time you might just send me into labor.

           

            I felt so full of life and energy that morning, it was hard to imagine anything going wrong. Able to stand erect and momentarily stretch, I had enjoyed a fairly comfortable day. Maybe this was the day! The day I’d be treated to a miracle: My cervix would miraculously narrow, and I’d be able to get out of bed! Dr. Landry always held out hope I might be able to return to walking around, though he wouldn’t commit to any time frame.

           

            He had, however, retracted his promise of automatically cutting my stitches at thirty-six weeks and letting whatever happened, happen. Now he was telling me he’d take me as far as I could go; the further we made it, the longer he’d attempt to take the pregnancy.

           

            So much for my goal of thirty-six weeks so eagerly penciled in on my makeshift calendar. No longer could I make plans or count on anything. But if all of my days from that point on would be as good as today, I was ready to meet the challenge of an additional four weeks—one entire month beyond our original goal.

           

            It didn’t happen the way I hoped, though.

           

            Within hours, another tumultuous, frightening tide crashed with vengeance upon my frail, receding shore.

           

            Actually, it was more like a blind-siding rip current or a rogue wave.

           

            And I was anything but prepared for it.

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NEXT WEEK: A bad day gets worse, impending death of a faithful companion, and the uplifting love of a four-year-old…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea