Thank the Lord for Edison, Alexander
Graham Bell and the miracle of the telephone—my connection with the outside
world, to help me succeed in my human incubator role.
While my husband was unraveling in
front of my eyes, I did manage to glean support from phone calls bearing happy,
encouraging voices. (Remember, this was WAY before laptop computers and text
messaging on slick, ultra-lightweight cell phones!) Uplifting cards also arrived
in the mail and were added to my growing mail stack lying beside me.
Eventually, though, I even had to
forgo the phone calls because simple, animated dialogue resulted in contraction episodes.
Contractions that became harder to control even with the prescribed Terbutalin.
My “Vitamin T” as Dr. Landry liked to call it.
One friend I was able to maintain
consistent contact with, though, was a Neonatal Intensive Care Nurse and Unit
manager—the woman from my church who had the infant daughter I couldn’t bring
myself to hold so many months before. At every stage—and every week I joyously
ticked off my calendar—I called her for a detailed update on fetal development
for that particular week of gestation, and about what to expect should I
deliver at that particular time.
She was always a great encourager,
particularly when I confided to her that I really didn’t know how much longer I
could lie in bed like this and that I seriously doubted my resolve and ability
to keep my “promise.”
“I don’t know how you’re doing it,”
she’d say. “But you need to think of the baby; every day means a bigger,
stronger baby, with a better chance of survival. You’ve got to hang in there.
You’re doing a great job!”
With words of affirmation being one
of my love languages, sometimes that’s all I needed to hear from someone:
“You’re doing a great job!” I’d received so few affirming words from the most
important people in my life. And if there was ever a time I needed them,
it was then.
Always honest and impartial, she
never withheld any adverse medical information about preemie infants. As much
as I occasionally wanted to don a pair of rose-colored glasses, her
tell-it-like-it-is, clinical approach suited me better than others compelled to
be high-spirited, super-positive cheerleaders. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” they’d chirp. “It won’t be
very long before you’re going to have a beautiful, healthy infant in your arms,
and you will forget all about this!”
How did they know everything would turn out happily-ever-after? Did they have a private line to God? Because
He wasn’t giving me any super
assurances all would be well. And I knew all-too-well that sometimes things just
don’t turn out the way you want or expect. I had physical and psychological wounds
to prove that.
Happy chirping didn’t make me feel
more secure, or happy. Ironically, I felt more spiritually lifted by my friend,
Sandy, who years earlier was bed-ridden while carrying her daughter. She had
pretty much been to hell and back in that event, and we thrived on repeatedly
shared horror stories. (I know what you’re thinking, but you had to be there.
And isn’t that one of the reasons people attend “group?” So they can commiserate
together?)
Anyway, this woman really knew deep down in her gut what
I was going through. She had been there, and survived! Rather than find her
stories depressing, I found solace in them; a kindred spirit who understood the
fathoms of my suffering and commiserated. She didn’t try to water down the
reality, or risk. She didn’t try to distract me from the suffering. Here was someone else who had taken a dangerous chance and emerged victorious. We
even laughed about the embarrassing dilemmas we faced, the all-dignity-gone
vulnerability we encountered on a daily basis. She understood me, and my heart. Oh, what a witness she was to me! Oh,
did the Apostle Paul ever know what he was talking about when he said that we
can laugh with others and cry with them; that when we have suffered, we can
commiserate better with others in the midst of their afflictions.
Even Dr. Landry, like an encouarging father, told me I was sacrificing a very small measure of my life; that I
needed to regard myself as a human incubator.
So, I continued to gather my
calendar every morning, count the days, divide them into weeks, then count the
remaining time, only to repeat the process again that afternoon, and the next
day. That precarious moment, when I was solidly entrenched in it, certainly
didn’t seem to me to be such a small interval of my life.
And it caused me to repeatedly ask
myself the question: What does “having faith” really mean?
My friends loved me and wanted to protect
me, but I reminded myself—often—that my faith and hope must remain in God’s will, and in His will alone.
No matter what the outcome would be.
Even if I failed to be a good human incubator.
Even if I failed to be a good human incubator.
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NEXT WEEK: Being pregnant and bedridden and dealing
with the physical pain of a growing, developing baby…
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Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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