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| 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
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