I'm now beginning my ninth day overdue with my until-now-cooperative unborn daughter. The waiting is not easy, as anyone who has had to wait for anything knows, but especially anyone who has had to wait for a way overdue child to be born.
Michael and I have been dealing with the waiting in different ways, but both ways have been wrought with anxiety. For me, a lot of that anxiety comes from a whole bunch of cancer baggage I did not expect to rear its ugly head during this experience.
I have written before (here and here) about how pregnancy has been something of a healing process for me in learning to love and appreciate my body again. This is a body that has betrayed me too many times by growing death and disease, but the fact that I have had such an amazing pregnancy, and I can see life literally bulging out from under my scars, has helped me be grateful for that body anyway, and rejoice in the amazing things it can do.
But the longer I wait, the less confidence I have.
Last week (39 weeks and 5 days), we had an ultrasound that showed that our Grace is measuring on the small side of normal, and that her head is especially small. Even though the doctor said it was nothing to worry about, I created a whole narrative in my head in which my body has already failed to do its job. In my made-up story, my body can't sustain life after all. It has stopped nourishing my child, and she can't grow like she should. I repeat that no one told me this was even remotely true; my unhealed wounds totally made it up. And my unhealed wounds told me: your body has failed again.
Yesterday, at 41 weeks and one day, I went in for a fluid check and non-stress test (NST) to make sure Grace is still thriving in my womb. At the doctor, the NST was inconclusive - nothing wrong, necessarily, but they didn't get the information they needed to be sure everything was okay. It should have been that whenever she moved, her heartbeat changed, but the few times she moved, there was no change. So they sent us to the hospital for more monitoring, with the likelihood of inducing. If they couldn't be sure, the doctor said, they'd rather get her out. (By the way, my doctor is on vacation this week - I wish she were here!) Both Michael and I had not planned on inducing. Even though I mentally prepared for this possibility, I found myself incredibly upset that once again, my body was not doing what it was supposed to. Every time a doctor checked my cervix and concluded it was not "ripe" or "favorable" or "soft" but rather, closed up tight, all I could think was, "Body fail."
At the hospital non-stress test, Grace continued to sleep and not move. The technician had me lie on my side to see if that helped. I thought maybe if I sang to Grace, that would help - the few times she had moved at the doctor's office had seemed to be in response to singing. The technician said to try whatever I wanted! So I began singing: "Every time I feel this way, this old familiar sinking, I will lay my troubles down by the water, where the river will never run dry. Hallelujah." And she moved! She moved a bunch! And every time I felt her move, I could hear the monitor change, her little heartbeat growing stronger and faster for a moment. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. The technician stuck her head in, grinning, and said, "Whatever you're doing, it's working!"
With that news, the doctor said everything looks fine, Grace is still doing fine in there, and if we would like not to induce yet, that was fine. Michael and I both felt this was the right decision. We talked about it later, and I said as much as I want Grace to come out, the thought of inducing made me feel very unsettled, like we were pushing something not quite ready. He agreed.
But I couldn't shake all the baggage. I still could only hear, "Your cervix isn't favorable. It's closed up tight." I related some of my frustrations to Michael and my parents as we sat on our lovely porch, processing the morning. As my anxiety about it all grew more and more apparent, my mom said, through tears, "Your body did not fail. It grew a person. There's a person in there that you grew, and she responds to your singing! That is not failure. That is amazing." We talked some more, and more generally, about the need to be kind to ourselves and to our bodies, and the need to say to our bodies, "Thank you for all you do," instead of loath them for all that they do wrong.
That night, I took a bath. I don't take a lot of baths, but hoped it would help my muscles to relax and let a baby out. By the light of one candle and our "I <3 my Dachshund" nightlight (yes, it's true), I lay in the warm, lavender-scented water, and breathed deeply, praying two different mantras - one was the simple "oooooopen" we often use in prenatal yoga, and one was something I came up with, again during yoga: "Trust God. Trust your body."
Then I decided to actually wash myself a bit. As I ran a washcloth over my face, my arms, my belly, I imagined washing away all the blame and frustration. I used a lavender salt scrub to wash my scar-covered breast mounds and my belly, and was stunned by their softness and beauty. I see myself every day, but I have never really taken so much intentional time to really take in the whole picture, with multiple senses. In the soft light, I remembered again how taken I had been with the beauty of my "new boobs." Now again, as my skin glistened in the soft light, I remembered how beautiful my body is - not for how it looks, but for all that it has been through and all that it has done for me. As I rinsed the salt scrub off, cupping water in my hands and letting it run over my chest and belly, I couldn't help but notice that this is the same motion I use to I baptize people, cupping water from the font in my hand, and letting it run down the brow of the person being baptized. And so this, too, became like a baptism to me, as I imagined this water washing away my grief, my brokenness, my disdain, my frustration. In their place, I left words of gratitude: gratitude for this temple God has given me, gratitude to God for bringing me through so much, gratitude for the wholeness and love God offers, gratitude for the little being still growing in my belly. In short, it was a moment in which I experienced the forgiveness of sin and brokenness, and the promise of life.
I continued to sit in the warm bath for a few more moments, not wanting to leave that now sacred, healing space. And then, I was suddenly ready. I felt that this moment had fulfilled its purpose, and I was ready for the next thing. I got out of the tub, dried off, and got ready for bed. Before Michael joined me, I lay there in bed and prayed a most earnest prayer, thanking God, and surrendering my anxiety, my need to plan, my need for this to go my way, and leaving what is left of this pregnancy, and all that will follow it, in the hands of a God who I trust will not fail me. After a brief but loving talk with Michael, I fell asleep feeling a peace I haven't felt in days.
And so we continue to wait. As one friend commented on one of my recent Facebook posts, "Grace always comes at the right time and in the right way." And so it does. And so she will.
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