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| Copyright 2013 Parker Prescott Owan |
If you’ve been with me for the last
couple of months, you’re probably thinking to yourself, Gee, Andrea. This pregnant and bedridden story is getting kind of boring! Same thing, day after day.
Well, you’re right. Same thing. Day
after day. Week after week. Month after month. It was good, bad and ugly, sometimes all at the same time.
Awaken. Look at the ceiling. Check
off a day on my calendar—with grateful
glee—and count how many days I’d been able to make it. Drink some orange
juice Chris dutifully delivered to my bedside. Turn on the television. Watch
the O.J. Simpson trial. (Yes, that was my major form of “entertainment”.) Have
a can of Ensure. Yuck! Listen to the
radio. Read until I could no longer hold my arms up in the air or at such awkward
angles. Return to the television. Get excited when I hear the front door open
and Parker’s little feet scurry across the entryway tile. Parker’s lit-up face
when he blasts into my room to check on me. The big event of mail perusing. Having
a can of liquid chalk—oops, I mean Ensure—for
dinner, along with canned spinach and sauerkraut juice. Talk to Chris while he
eats dinner in my room. Watching a Bible study on tape a friend has given me.
Listen to motivational or relaxation tapes. (I’d been given a plethora of
them.) Saying goodnight to Parker and Chris and staring at the ceiling as the
darkness envelopes the world outside, and then my room. Watching television
until the last show signs off. Counting the victorious days in my calendar again
before I turn out the lights. Battling my nightly demons, and awaiting the creeping
of the sun’s rays across the hills and their piercing through my bedroom
windows. (My heart always sped up
excitedly for that event.)
Day after day after day…
But I would be remiss if I didn’t
tell you that not every day evolved into a monolithic struggle. Some mornings I felt good and took the
doctor-approved opportunity to gingerly stand and stretch, (okay, lift my hands
over my head), carefully change clothes, wash my face, and brush my teeth at
the bathroom sink. I had made it far enough for Dr. Landry to allow me to do
that, and this redeeming, six-minute ritual emerged as the highlight of my day.
And every three days I’d carefully
shuffle into the bathroom—supporting my increasing girth with my hand—and kneel
down next to the bathtub so Chris could wash my hair. (I can’t begin to
describe what his gentle, loving hands did for my head, or my spirit!) Dr.
Landry suggested sitting in a tub of about two inches of water to bathe, but
the idea of climbing into and out of the bathtub—scrunching over to sit down,
then stand up—scared the daylights out of me. Even my nurse practitioner friend
screwed up her nose at that idea and gave her opinion: No. Chris and I managed to perfect this technique. Then I’d pad
back to bed for a sponge bath.
And I did allow myself to dream. Maybe for Valentine’s Day I’ll treat myself
to a short shower. Yes! Valentine’s Day might be something to look forward to.
Another date I eagerly penciled in on my calendar. February 14: Take first shower in 11 weeks!
Occasionally, I’d get brave and
attempt a return to normal, solid food, only to pay the price that evening or
the next day. Chris and Parker, however, continued to enjoy home-cooked Methodist
meals. There’s nothing like a Methodist potluck, and we had one almost nightly
in our home. My husband gained the weight I was losing, and Parker consistently
inquired about who would be “coming over tonight to bring dinner.” It was a
wonderful display of witnessing and love for my four-year-old: to see how the
body of Christ can mobilize to support and love one another; to see love in
action. Prayer and nurturing with skin on it!
The dreaded panic attacks continued
unabated, though, then worsened as the pregnancy advanced. At times, night’s
darkness engulfed me like a suffocating wall of water, the dread of its
confinement descending upon my spirit hours before the actual attack.
And a question always jogged around
my mind during these episodes: How do
chronic sufferers of panic attacks survive the agonies of them? The empathy
basket I’d filled earlier with paraplegics and POWs now included chronic panic
attack sufferers. I couldn’t understand them at all before this; now I
understood them all too well.
And "them" was now me.
One night stands out like a pulsing
light in my mind. For no apparent reason, I abruptly awakened a spasmodic coughing
fit which was followed by a vice-like uterine contraction. I clutched my chest
to remind myself to breathe. One side of my brain screamed a command: Get up! It’s over! You’re done. Hang it up.
The other side calmly, firmly said, Relax,
stay put. Keep breathing…that’s right…rhythmic, deliberate breaths. And don’t
move. My brain argued back and forth several seconds.
Then I screamed. Chris bolted
down the stairs looking disoriented and concerned. I had to feel his touch, experience his comforting presence. I knew
he was exhausted, sick and sleep-deprived. But I was suffocating!
He peered at me through glazed eyes
then asked, “What can I do?”
Propped on one elbow—primed for the anticipated
flight—I gaped at him helplessly. “I don’t…know…I don’t know what I need!” I choked.
Yes
I do know. I need it to all go away! No. Maybe I just need to know I’m not alone
in the house. That I’m not really alone in this darkness.
I hoped Chris knew what I needed, or
would at least have a sudden revelation about it. But he didn’t even know about my fear and panic attacks
because I hadn’t told him about them. His solution was to pour me some cough
syrup, watch me take it, before I reluctantly sent him back to bed. Then, back
to God I went, begging for the superhuman strength—desire— to continue this race. Just
give me peace to get through this night. Just one night, Lord! Is that too much
to ask? Can’t I have just one night?
My prayers dissolved into pleading
sobs.
Then it happened. Instantly. As
though I’d been touched by a gentle hand, that reached into my soul and body
and released a dam allowing all of the fear, the stress, the anguish to escape.
And as it all exited, relief and otherworldly calm filled up the space left
behind, and a wrapping of indescribable love and peace encased me. As my body
inhaled deeply and then exhaled the tension, I gratefully submitted to peaceful,
protected sleep.
But I wasn’t going to take any more
chances. After that night, as a means of defensive protection, the television
remained on, with the volume up, so I could see human faces and hear human
voices, or mechanical noise. Vibrating lines jittering across the screen was
good enough. Often, I left the overhead fan light on the dim setting to escape
the feeling of behind buried alive in the blackness. Only at the first light of
dawn was I able to relax.
Dawn.
My favorite time of day was the break of dawn. When the sky slowly opened to
unveil the brilliant oranges and reds emerging from the foothills beyond our
home. Solar hues, joyously gathering to announced the faithfulness of God and
His glory; to give hope to a new day. A hope I lived through each night for. A
hope I searched for—sometimes frantically in the morning. Just to see the dawn
crack open the black sky was like a barbiturate to my mind, morphine shot
directly into my veins, and I strained to see between the immovable blind slats
covering the French door in my room. The door to the world outside.
Before the hues of twilight
announced another blessing, though, there was the “morning star.” Venus. The planet that appeared first in
the procession to declare the forthcoming spectacle; emerging like a blazing,
dignified courtier trumpeting and reflecting the arrival of its brilliant King,
who personally orchestrated and painted the ensemble of colors announcing his
arrival. The sheer whiteness of its solar reflection projected a sparkling
blaze of promise in the sky, and I reveled in its quiet magnificence,
expectancy and promise. The night, bowing in obedient retreat, abdicating to the sun's authority and strength. The company of colors spreading slowly, like a
gentle, healing hand moving carefully, lovingly over the earth, with an unheard
voice that said, “Take heart! I have not forgotten you. I am here.”
From my sequestered location, I was unable to
witness the encore of colors in the evening recessional, however. Chris would
rush in and exclaim wildly, with descriptive gestures, “You should seeeee the sunset!” Or he’d announce how
beautiful the ground cover flowers looked, having exploded into glorious color
during our early spring after months of energy-gathering rest.
On one occasion, when I had the rare
opportunity to leave the house for an appointment with Dr. Landry, I was
privileged to view the spectacle myself.
Three thousand square feet of blooming
rosea ice plant spread like a magnificent, hot pink carpet across our hill. I
gazed. I gawked. I sucked in the sweet, moist spring air.
I wept.
Spring!
There’s nothing like spring in Southern
California, I thought. Such a perfect
time of year for a baby to join nature’s celebration of new and rejuvenated
life! If only the flowers will stay this vivid until my baby’s born.
I was beginning to allow myself the
indulgence of thinking—believing—I
would make it.
And so would my baby.
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NEXT WEEK: Riding waves and going for broke…
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Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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