Thank God for Little Things...

...especially the first gentle pokes of tiny little person.

Baby J quickened today (at 16 weeks, 1 day), as I was reading in bed on my side after a nap. Since (s)he did so about an hour and a half before a visit to the OB, the doctor confirmed from my description that what I think I felt probably was baby. We also got reassurance, thanks to fetal doppler, that Baby J's heart is still thumping along at a nice clip. I had prayed for an earlier-than-later quickening so that I would have that periodic reassurance, and it would seem my prayer has been answered. Apparently most moms whose wombs have not been stretched by previous births often don't feel anything until 20-22 weeks, so I feel very fortunate indeed. We're very much looking forward to seeing baby J again via ultrasound in about 3 weeks. Perhaps we will find out at that point which personal pronoun applies. :D

Driven to my Knees

Fear, or love? I am not sure which motivation is stronger in my life. Sometimes I think it just depends on the day.

Whatever the case, I found myself sitting and talking to our local priest yesterday about some of my recent struggles, and when he asked about my prayer life, my answer was a bit unusual - even for me:

"Let me just explain it this way: I often wondered what the concept of women being saved by childbirth could possibly mean. I think I have developed a personal theory about this over the last several weeks. I've already felt so overwhelmed by love and concern for this tiny person inside of me, that while I am not particularly disciplined about when and how and what, I am praying much more often these days. At night, I pray specific prayers, but I also find myself praying extemporaneously throughout the day. I can only imagine how a mother's love grows and intensifies, and how this desperate longing for safety and protection of another life grows, when she has given birth and has a child in her arms."

It's true, I think... at least in my life. If I find salvation - I mean genuine transformation of my life, not simply a hope that God will keep on forgiving as quickly as I keep on sinning - then I can see how motherhood will be a huge catalyst.

The last year has been characterized by sorrow, anger and apathy, for the most part. It's not that life's circumstances warranted that, really. We've had real difficulties, but I am reminded daily that others suffer much more than I do - and often with a great deal more grace. I am very blessed in many respects, and I know it. I'm also, though, not a person of great faith. I find myself, in moments when I am honestly contemplating my spiritual self, having to repeat the same old refrain: "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!" And, honestly, sometimes the unbelief wins in my heart.

Nothing has moved me to prayer and towards spiritual things more than the recognition that I cannot focus exclusively on myself, or even my marriage, anymore. At this moment, a little person depends on my body for its life -- my body, which is the temple of the Holy Spirit. A little person will depend, Lord willing, on my life and example, for spiritual, moral, physical and every other kind of health for many years to come -- my life, which is likely to be one of the most prominent exemplars of Christianity that this child will encounter from the moment it takes its first breath of air.

No pressure.

In the face of it all, I don't know what other response to have, other than to fall to my knees, either literally or figuratively, and pray that my own life can be redeemed, and that this innocent will be sheltered and protected in spite of the failings of its mother.

Theologians can tell me what salvation through childbirth really means Biblically and practically. My heart tells me that this is the day of salvation. Now is the acceptable time... to be driven to my knees.

I love you, too.

The last couple of months have moved us into a different sort of relationship at home - one that is hard for both of us in several respects. I like to be pampered as much as the next person, but I hate to feel inept and needy. Lately, I've experienced more feelings of ineptness than entitlement. I have become needy in ways I have not been before and don't like at all, and Daniel has picked up a great deal of the slack in our lives, while providing our income and maintaining a largely uncomplaining attitude.

All of this has required sacrifice and compromise from both of us, though. He cooks meals for us both to exacting dietary standards and makes sure I have what I need from day-to-day, and (at least as long as we don't have company coming) I live with the house being more or less disastrous. I also decide that something less than perfection is okay in many areas of life, and that if neither of us can get to it (the list of things I cannot do because of lack of strength or physical limitations is astounding), it doesn't need to be done. He shows me his love in hundreds of (sometimes unpleasant) ways -- from cleaning the cat box, bringing me books to read, and picking things up for me when I drop them, to making a circuit of the grocery store at a snail's pace with me on my more adventurous/independent days, sitting with me to combat my loneliness, and listening to my saved-up thoughts for hours when he'd rather be asleep. I, for my part, am learning day after day to be increasingly grateful for his untiring patience with me and willingness to sacrifice his time and energy for a woman who seems to me to be almost nothing like the vibrant, independent person he first fell in love with. We're both having to find new ways to interact and find closeness with each other, and we're both having to sacrifice desires that we haven't really been asked to sacrifice since we got married.

Some days, it's not easy. Some days, I resent it, and while he doesn't complain, I would be surprised if Daniel didn't have his moments, too.

Still, isn't this struggle just what marriage is about every day? Sacrifice and gratitude. Patience and serving, and, sometimes, being served and being grateful.

When I thank him, he usually replies one of two ways: "I love you," or "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be in your current condition." Both are true, but the first seems more relevant to me and the second usually provokes giggles.

Frankly, I don't think I ever imagined having someone in my life who was so self-sacrificial... which may show just how short I have fallen of appreciating and truly grasping Christ and His sacrifice: either I fail to see how intimately connected to me His sacrifice is, or I fail to understand that His sacrifice simply is the most perfect expression of love. Indeed, if I did comprehend it enough to express appropriate gratitude, I am sure I would get the same reply: "I love you." And, to the extent that my current state is one of grace, forgiveness and blessing, it goes without saying that if it were not for Him, I would not be in my current condition.

I came across this blog post - Love in the Time of Prostate Cancer - a few days ago. While my physical challenges are nothing to what the author is experiencing, I found his message about marriage to resonate with me in this period of my life. Changes in circumstance have a way of changing our perspectives.

Perhaps more than ever, I can say to my Valentine this year, "I love you, too."

I only hope he knows it, and that this realization won't be lost on me when I regain my strength and am tempted to forget just how much I need him.

Carried to Castles of Gold

In two days it will have been one year since we finally lost our first child to miscarriage. I say "finally" because this was the point at which we decided with the doctors that my body was not going to expel the baby on its own, and surgery was necessary. We discovered later that surgery had been the only real option because of abnormalities of the placenta, but we didn't know that at the time. We only knew that it had been nearly 3 weeks since the baby had stopped growing, and that my body had yet to let go. That child, though tests revealed it to be imperfect, was wanted, and its loss was heartbreaking. According to what we know of genetics, this particular child could never have lived (indeed it had stopped living by the time of our first ultrasound), but that didn't matter to us one bit. It would have been about five months old today, and as the anniversary of its loss draws near, it's hard not to mourn all of the losses that attend a miscarriage -- the dreams, the expectations, the hopes -- all over again.

Months later, I remember waiting with Daniel at my gynecologist's office in a hallway, pregnant for the second time, and desperate for good news in the first ultrasound that we awaited in just a few minutes. I saw two young women come down the hallway within a few minutes of each other: each admitted for "post-surgery" consults. (The nurses were not as discrete as they may have been, I think.) Both girls were pretty, carefree, and looked to be about 20, maybe, and they both had come in alone. It suddenly occurred to me that they had probably had elective abortions, and as quickly as the thought crossed my mind, I felt as if every emotion I was capable of experiencing had welled up and threatened to choke me. Here I was, desperately wanting a child I couldn't have, while other people choose to destroy children who would, in all likelihood, be healthy, perfect children that someone would love dearly even if their mothers' lives didn't have room for them.

This isn't to say I don't understand what moves others to make that choice. When our culture is two-faced about the unborn, it's easy enough to choose whichever belief system suits your circumstances, especially if you have not been given reason to believe that some things are more important than others. I mean, a fetus of the same gestational age is a "baby" to a woman who wants it, and "product of conception" to a woman who doesn't. If you think this confusion doesn't make miscarriage rather more difficult to experience honestly, then try talking through tears to the distantly nonchalant medical professional who, for the sake of his or her own conscience, must think and speak in latter terms and, when it is your baby unmoving on the black screen, reverts to talk of embryos and fetuses with studied medical detachment.

Our culture as a whole simply does not value life that hasn't started breathing air rather than amniotic fluid, and so it sets up this dilemma of "rights" that seems somehow compelling in an arena from which certain realities and viewpoints are barred. In truth, I have a great deal of compassion for the women who find themselves in the position of feeling they must make the choice that our culture offers them. I mourn, however, the fact that our culture is so duplicitous as to make that choice seem to be without consequence or importance beyond that of one person's right to order her life as she wishes without the intrusion of what amounts, by this way of thinking, to a tumor.


Something I read recently in Sigrid Undset's Gunnar's Daughter - a saga in Icelandic style but written by a Catholic woman in 1909 - dealt with a strikingly similar issue of life, in the context historic clash between Christianity and paganism in Scandinavia. It's not a new question, really, this question of life. It comes down to worldview. This story that Undset shares makes it plain just how radical Christianity with its respect for vulnerable life must have seemed to the Viking world.

I wish to share and episode from the book here, condensed. Let me preface it only by saying that it was apparently quite common to "expose" unwanted children to the elements to let them die after birth. While the fact that the children in question have been born alive may push the argument to another level even in our cultural framework, if, as most Christians believe, life is sacred from conception, then the problem is really the same at any stage.

A Christian priest named Eirik tells the story of a woman, Tora, who was seduced and bore a child, and "to hide her misfortune she cast the child into the sea." She later married, had children and lived a respectable life until she became deathly ill. She believed herself to be dead, though only in a swoon, and she could hear her children crying for her. All she wanted was to be allowed to return to her crying children. Instead, a man in a black cloak led her towards a castle of gold through a dark valley that, at first glance, looked to be full of little lambs:

"But when she came nearer she saw they were little children; there many thousands of them; they were quite naked and newly born, but their faces were old, and some were bloody and horribly mangled, and some were wet. They tried to climb out of the valley on both sides, but they rolled back again at once, for they were so small and weak. This seemed to Tora such a sorry sight that she began to weep; she asked him in the cloak what it was and how the poor little things had come there. 'Their parents have left them here,' said the man. 'They willed it so.' 'I can never believe it,' said Tora."

Tora ripped her own clothing to cover as many of the children as she could, until she was quite naked herself, while the children swarmed around her and asked her to carry them out of the valley so they could see the world. Tora explained, tearfully, that she simply wanted to return to her own children and she pressed on.

She reached the water in the valley, in which children were shivering neck-high. Moved with compassion, she gathered as many of them as she could, until she could carry no more. She could not make it out of the valley herself, let alone carry the children with her. Her knight offered a solution: he would carry her or the children, and he asked her whom she would have him take first. There were thousands of children, and more arrived every moment, so if he were to take them, she may be left to wait a very long time indeed, but she told him to take the children from their suffering, and she would wait as long as she needed to wait for him to return to the cold, desolate place for her. He then revealed to her:

“'It is your eldest son, Tora, who is now lying next against your breast--all these are children who have been robbed of life before they could live in the world or learn the way to my house.'
“Tora fell on her knees and asked in terror: 'Who are you, chieftain, and what is your name?"
“'Christ is my name,' said the King. And now a radiance went out from him, as though a sun had risen upon the valley, warming all the children. But Tora had to shut her eyes before the glory of it. And when she opened them she was at home, lying in her bed.”

When she awoke, she confessed her history, causing such anger in her husband that he threw her out of the house in the middle of the night. She ran to the shore, thinking that her sin was so great that she didn’t deserve to live. Once there, she was drawn by the cries of a tiny abandoned male infant, which she nursed and fostered.

From that moment, she dedicated her life and what riches were hers to taking in and caring for any child that was unwanted, and she lived simply off the earth. When Christians came to evangelize the area, they were surprised to find that she already knew the Lord by name and worshiped Him. She and the children were baptized, and when she died, she was called holy.


I thank God today that he does not abandon the little ones, but carries them to Himself and, in this parable, His castle of gold. I am also grateful for his mercy and forgiveness and power to save in the face of even the most grievous of sins. Even so, I cannot help but mourn all of the little lives that are lost, whether by the wise hand of God or by human hands that know not what they do. Most of all, I praise God that, to the best of our knowledge, this child now in my womb is healthy and continues to grow. As He well knows, if this child is not destined for this earth, it will not be because we chose it to be so.

Lost

By now, I suppose these weekly poetic forays need little introduction. Just know that this, too, is the result of a poetry challenge asking participants to describe a moment in time using "Once upon a time" or other fairy tale language. The prompt also urged the writer not to fear the dark or the light subjects: simply write truthfully.

The Dangers of Sitting

Once upon a time,

There was a young girl

Who lived in ignorance of

What it really meant

To lose –

Not just for a day,

Not just for a season,

Not just for a year or two –

Someone who was, to her,

The earth and sky and sea.

Then one bright October day,

She came home from school,

Tired, sweaty and smiling,

And found her mother and father,

Faces grave.

They asked her to sit on the soft floral couch,

So they could tell her that Granddaddy

Had fulfilled a life-long dream:

He had finally seen the Panama Canal,

Risen slowly through her mighty locks,

Told his true love he was ready to go home,

And, within a day or two,

Sailed from the sea into eternity.

There she sat, hands sweating,

Numb, confused, disbelieving,

Backpack abandoned on the floor,

Wishing she could stand up again,

And run from the knowing

That came with the sitting.

Wishing she could somehow go back –

Just a day,

Just a season,

Just a year or two –

And, clinging to his familiar hand,

Anchor him to the earth.

Lost

Once upon a time,

On a bitter November afternoon,

I saw your smiling faces

Through the grime and din of the subway.

You, the

Loving mother

Devoted father

Sister

Brother

Only child

Wonderful friend.

Your smiles surrounded me,

And all of us engaged in the

uncharacteristically quiet bustle

from dark place to dark place

aboard the stinking, screeching trains

tunneling through the dirt.

Your eyes greeted me at every turn.

As I hugged my bag closer to me,

And tugged at my suddenly too-hot scarf.

I burned to look at you, to stare.

But I was strong, I didn’t cry,

I simply watched you watching me.

That is… until I saw that one –

The single face among the myriad faces

plastered to every column,

every wall –

The one with a joyful red scrawl:

“Found!”

I saw that one and could no longer ignore

What all of your unmarred faces cried:

“Lost!”

All of you are lost.

You, the

Loving mother

Devoted father

Sister

Brother

Only child

Wonderful friend

Last seen in the vicinity of

Two tall towers that once stood

Proud vigil over the streets

of a city that promised the American dream,

and witnessed the nation’s nightmare.

For those of you who are interested, one of my complete poems from last week and a snippet from another was featured at High Calling Blogs.

The photo at the top of the post is a double-exposed gem we found when cleaning out my grandparents' house a few years ago. It features me, young and contemplative, and my grandfather. He passed away when I was 16, so this ghostly composite must have been at least 6 or 8 years old when the moment described arrived.

Name that Neurosis!

I think I may have finally figured out the *real* reason why I chose to be a philosophy major in college: I have this desire to conquer the entire world of thought, and I had already mastered the irrational, which left me with a gap in rationality that UCLA philosophy professors endeavored to fill. Okay, so maybe that reasoning is a stretch, but I really am quite good at irrationality. I have it down pat. Rationality? *sigh* Not so much.

I find the rather incredible mix of emotions plus hormones in pregnancy polishes my already refined irrationality until it fairly shines. Tonight I frantically looked up everything I could find online and in my Mayo Clinic pregnancy book about my favorite pet fear terrible pregnancy outcome of the moment. I seem to be a very quick study when it comes to seeing something that could happen, discovering that I have one rather weak risk factor somewhere in my medical history, and then deciding that my whole being must be consumed by fear and worry that the I will be the 1-2% exception to the healthy pregnancy rule. I don't think this is entirely on the level of "normal" anxiety. I really do think I am exceptional in my ability to embrace the improbable.

In all seriousness, with all of the joys and expectations that this pregnancy has brought, it has also brought new opportunities to expect, or at the very least seriously fear, the worst.

Poor Daniel, caused to sit on the toilet and listen while I cried and worried aloud in the shower, offered some really sage advice: "Oh love, you need to let that go." I stopped scrubbing long enough to pull back the shower curtain and reply, "You know what you are asking me to do?" The implication, of course, was that he would get further asking fish to fly. At least there's one species of fish that does achieve a fair approximation of aviation. He also offered some more advice -- you know, realistic alternatives to crippling worry -- that was quite practical and helpful, but I don't want to recount it here, because it will only make my irrationality more plain, and I still have sense enough that I prefer to preserve a shred of dignity.

In a moment of dazzling lucidity, I told Daniel that my fears may actually be rational - I just don't know yet whether they are or not (even if the odds of my fears being grounded are slim). When the worst happens, it will prove my fears rational. Hmmph. He replied that I was talking nonsense (in so many words) and countered that no, the feared outcome coming to pass would simply mean that my still quite IR-rational fears would be realized, not rational.

Darn.

This is part of why I married him. He won't let me talk myself into irrationality without at least acknowledging it for what it is. I just happen to find it annoying. For those keeping score: Daniel 7, Nikki 2.

I also find it annoying that I suspect that 80% of tonight's outburst was a particular moment of hormonal surge or pregnancy wackiness. I had passed a very fun day with a pregnant girlfriend (spent entirely in hours of conversation in our living room), and then I had dissolved into an anxious puddle almost as soon as she left. There was no discernible reason for this particular mood swing... well, no reason that someone like Daniel would accept. The other 20%... that's the part I am hard-pressed to change, because the day I stop worrying, you should probably order a casket.

The crisis passed, we watched the Hurricanes kill the Phoenix Coyotes 7-2 (restoring my faith in the gods of hockey) and I headed upstairs with the conviction that the baby and I might both live to see another day after all. (If we were very lucky!)

All I can say, right about now, is thank God for a very patient, gracious husband. That, and thank God that He is a patient, gracious God who is actually in control of all of the circumstances -- even if I should find it distressing that this fact of God's control makes my worry amount to weakness, if not a full-on a lack of faith. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Right? Well then, if my shred of remaining rationality demands evidence, perhaps the part of me that is so suggestible as to believe that if there is a 1-2% chance that something bad will happen to someone, that someone will be me, then it shouldn't be so hard to come up with a bit of faith, right? Certainly I don't hope for the worst, and I could sure use some assurance, and I dare say that there's more evidence for God's hand in my life than for many of my fears.

A little faith. I think I will work on that next... as soon as I finish obsessing on irrationalities. After all, it's the only rational thing to do.

Seeing the Detail. Writing it Down.

Not to denigrate poetry... but I had the feeling today that since I had "nothing better to do", I might as well try another of the poetry challenges laid out in author L. L. Barkat's blog. I still don't "like" to write poetry, and I still don't think I do a very good job of it, but far be it from me to decide that just because I am not master of something, I cannot try it; I lived that way for too many years. Life is too short.

So, for this challenge, to "see" and write, I have made two offerings. One is sentimental, the other was painful to recall and possibly more painful to write. I'll start with the bad, and then move to the better... at least in terms of what I can only imagine will be the general response to the subject matter - no guesses about the writing. I gave myself a new guideline this time: that is, one of the poems needed to be relatively short. The first one below is the result of that limitation. In both cases, the challenge was to start from a given line and then "see" the detail when writing. I'm not sure I did a great job of the latter, but the former was a piece of cake. Ah well... I have to start somewhere!


A Question for the Man on the Highway

I close my eyes and I can still see
through the gray-lit darkness of a starless California night
and the ubiquitous streaks on my windshield,
your elongated shape taking recognizable form in the lane
imperfectly revealed by the distant white glare of a streetlamp.

It's all wrong. You are out of place between the reflecting stripes
on the still-warm asphalt, your dark-panted leg twisted,
your arms akimbo, your foot in a posture no ballerina would dare,
your unmoving face melting into a luminous pool
on the pocked black earth.

I am in motion, yet you remain unmoved
I see the lights draw near behind and beside me,
help arriving, flashing a warning it is too late for you to heed.
I hear the wailing siren and grip the wheel until my knuckles blanch.
My eyes blur with salty wetness, you hear nothing, see nothing.

Which of life's curves so tangled your mind
that you chose to wring the life from your body tonight,
in the middle of Highway 10, just east of Los Angeles,
where I, young and carefree, on the way to laugh and dance,
would find you lying still, grow suddenly old and weep?

-----


Never Out of Mind.

I close my eyes and I can still see…
home.
It isn't so far away, it lurks just out of waking sight.
It's there, unchanged, as it was, right now.
Do you see the huge magnolia overhanging the busy street,
dropping its curious seed pods and fragrant blossoms,
on the dandelion-dotted grass.
There’s the avocado tree prostrate in an invitation to climb,
and the roses Dad cultivates and aphids devour?

Do you see me, small and unkempt,
brown hair ratted and blue eyes glistening,
lying in the itchy Augustine grass?
Dwelling in mansions of old sheets and imagination,
splashing in a creaking plastic pool,
or reading in the shadow of a tree until the sun sinks out of sight?
I see it. All of it.

There Sparky still frolics, an exuberant streak of gold in the yard.
There Benjamin rat plays tag with Abby, a little gray dog whose
enthusiasm for life outstrips her ability to understand it,
while a snake lies curled and still in his glassy home,
tree frogs escape from their confinement,
and a toad croaks his sad longing for the stream of his birth.
Watching them all, monarch and matriarch,
Heidi still pants and paces, head-aloft.

Do you see the sheet mansions giving way to a dream?
The best playhouse anywhere:
tall, and carpeted, with real windows and walls.
Granddaddy's strong hands pour the concrete,
form its wooden frame,
and run the wires that bring light into darkness.
I'm there, pressing my fingers into the fresh cement of the step,
never dreaming that the "little house" would stand
while Granddad would fall.

I can see the old cinderblock wall,
leaning towards me,
pushed by the reaching, sinister oleander.
Summoning my courage,
I clamber over the top, to fetch a beloved toy
and relieve my stomach of its skin on the way down the backside,
I cry and shriek as my mother dresses my wounds
and make silent plans to try again next week.

Later I tip-toe figure-8s through the tiny "big" house we shared,
evading my mother's sight as I couldn't her sound.
I lie on the old brown carpet,
and watch a baby rabbit, name starting with “P”, take tentative leaps
and nibble of pale ruffled lettuce;
By day I play in the closet, or worry a baby sister
At night, I watch for the shadows to enliven my room,
and huddle under the covers - out of sight,
or play the piano in the darkness,
until the demands of sleep are louder than music.
I hear muted voices through the newsprint walls,
and listen to the rumble of my father's sleep.

Though the wall be torn down, the big house remodeled,
while the mansion sheets and plastic pool molder mile-deep in a landfill.
Though the animals be still and the "little house" be reduced
to its foundations.
It's all there. All of it.
Ask the roses that still bloom,
and the aphids that still feast on their sweetness.
Ask the seeds of the dandelions that wage unrelenting war on the lawn,
floating, like the children of the house,
to greener pastures where they can put down new roots
in the glow of the sinking sun.

I can still see it,
every blade of grass,
every ray of light,
every faraway moment
that shapes my sight today.

Prayers for Baby (and for Mommy)

I have a very predictable bedtime ritual these days. It involves lots of extemporaneous prayers for my own health as it pertains to that of our little baby, and especially for God's protection of this most precious little gift He has given us.

So far, so good.

The extemporaneous prayers are great - allowing me to fill in whatever specific thoughts and worries I may have as I go, and most nights I drift off to sleep with some prayer or another half-spoken in my heart. When my mind is too disordered to formulate complete thoughts, I meditate on the Jesus Prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. That prayer has had particular power in my life some dark moments. Among other things, I have found that saying that little prayer will dissolve nightmares when I achieve consciousness of my dreams enough to pray. It is meant as an aide to the Biblical injunction to "pray without ceasing," which is possible if we teach our hearts to pray. I'm a very imperfect practitioner, but I do find that sometimes I become aware that I am praying it only after I have begun.

For all that, I had begun to look for some established prayers to use as well. Extemporaneous prayers are all about me, in many ways... my worries, my hurts, my gratitude, my wants, my will. One thing I like about more formal prayers that have been in use for centuries and across the globe is that those careful words make it all less about me and teach me the mind of the Church about my wants and worries. They let me know that I am not alone in my worries and fears. They allow my mind to find focus in ordered words - my mind that is so prone to worried wandering.

One would think that, since the Orthodox have a rich tradition of formal prayers, since the marriage service is full of admonitions to bear Godly children, and since childbirth is how we all got to be here, there might be quite a selection of topical prayers on the subject. If there is, I had trouble finding it. I finally found 3 prayers today, which was a great boon! I have chosen to share two of them here:

O Sovereign Lord Jesus Christ our God, the Source of life and immortality, I thank Thee, for in my marriage Thou has blest me to be a recipient of Thy blessing and gift; for Thou, O Master, didst say: Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth. I thank Thee and pray: Bless this fruit of my body that was given to me by Thee; favor it and animate it by Thy Holy Spirit, and let it grow a healthy and pure body, with well-formed limbs. Sanctify its body, mind, heart, and vitals, and grant this infant that is to be born an intelligent soul; establish him in the fear of Thee. A faithful angel, a guardian of soul and body, do thou vouchsafe him. Protect, keep, strengthen, and shelter the child in my womb until the hour of his birth. But conceal him not in his mother's womb; Thou gavest him life and health. O Lord Jesus Christ, into Thine almighty and paternal hands do I entrust my child. Place him upon the right hand of Thy grace, and through Thy Holy Spirit sanctify him and renew him unto life everlasting, that he may be a communicant of Thy Heavenly Kingdom.

Amen.

O All-Merciful Christ our God, look down and protect me, Thy handmaiden, from fear and from evil spirits that seek to destroy the work of Thy hands. And when my hour and time is come, deliver me by Thy grace. Look with compassionate eye and deliver me, Thy handmaiden, from pain. Lighten mine infirmity in the time of my travail and grant me fortitude and strength for birth giving, and hasten it by Thine almighty help. For this is Thy glorious work, the power of Thine omnipotence, the work of Thy grace and tender-heartedness.

Amen.

I wonder if I could sleep at all if not for the priviledge of taking my thoughts and worries and hopes, as the old Baptist hymn says, "to the Lord in prayer."

P.S. Another thing for which to be grateful: the OB office called today to let me know that all of the bloodwork they have done to date is fine - among other things, I don't carry the cystic fibrosis gene mutation, and the baby does not appear to be at risk of having any of the trisomies.

13 Weeks and Growing

Barring vitamin trouble, mercury poisoning or the thousands of other things I am tempted to worry about almost constantly, Baby J has reached 13 weeks of gestation as of today. He or she posed for some photos on Friday, at 12 weeks 5 days, and proud Mommy and Daddy are excited to share the pictures with our small blog-viewing public.

But first, some background.

Ahhh - they joys and trials of pregnancy. Just when I talk myself out of one neurosis, I find reason for another.

Today, it's that my prescription prenatal vitamins have been recalled. That's not news one wants at a time like this. I *did* have sense enough to research the whys of the recall in order to avoid a meltdown, and I discovered that the reason is rather benign: some pills may be oversized in certain lots. I don't think my lot is affected since this is a rather visible flaw, but I sent Daniel back to WalMart pharmacy to make sure that my pills were not from the recalled lot anyway. WalMart didn't know... but they gave us a new bottle with non-affected vitamins for Dan's trouble. This is not one of the times in my life that gambling seems attractive.

Friday my neurosis was just how much king crab leg I ate on one of our very, very rare restaurant visits. We had a gift card, and I wanted crab. I knew it to be low mercury and fairly safe, but I didn't know they had brought me 20 ounces until I had enjoyed every one of those ounces thoroughly and then thought to ask, just out of curiosity, how much crab they brought me anyway. Who feeds you 20 ounces of any meat!? So, Friday night was spent, in part, researching probably mercury levels in king crab legs, shelled weight of meat (since my portion was 20-ish ounces with shell) and the possible mercury consumption based on the two combined figures. That took more work than I expected, but the numbers produced by a handy calculator I found online indicated that we probably escaped harm - even after I added to my weekly seafood menu some shrimp and salmon for good measure. This mommy-to-be will probably not crab binge again for a very loooooong time.

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Week 12 was rather difficult for us. On Sunday night one week ago, I started to pass a frightening quantity of red blood and clots. The bleeding came at scary timing (don't get me wrong, it is always scary), because apparently miscarriages are most common during the weeks when the mother would have menstruated: weeks 4, 8, 12 and 16. When I began to bleed on day one of week 12, I was very afraid that we were about to become an incidence of the statistic. I called the OB on call and was told to just wait and see if the bleeding got worse or if any other symptoms developed (cramping, etc.), in which case we'd be sent to the hospital. We are grateful to report that the bleeding lightened up considerably within 3 hours, and stopped completely within 36. I called the OB office during office hours the next day and arranged to go in to have them check me out. They didn't find active bleeding, and everything looked okay, except that my cervix is a bit irritated. They checked for baby's heartbeat with a portable ultrasound, and we got to see him or her, albeit rather blurry and indistinct, bopping away in there with a good, strong heartbeat.

I had a first trimester ultrasound scheduled for Friday already (the stated purpose is to screen for Down Syndrome, which we would have done only for the sake of information, and which is why we hesitated to have it done), and although I had been on the verge of canceling it when I went in on Tuesday, the doctor who checked me out said that she thought it might be a good idea to have that more-detailed ultrasound on Friday so that we could also see if there was any visible reason for the bleeding.

The ultrasound proved helpful. Not only did it produce really great images of our baby - complete with brains! - but it reassured me a great deal and revealed a couple of things that I would not have otherwise known. One of them is that I have what is referred to as a marginal placenta previa. This means that the placenta has attached low enough in the uterus that it is bordering the cervix. This could be a problem if it remains in that location as the baby grows towards term, but, the likelihood is that the placenta will move up as the top of the uterus stretches away from the base. Worst case, the placenta doesn't move up, and I would require a c-section and somewhat closer monitoring towards the end of pregnancy for any bleeding that would indicate a problem. The placenta is, however, well-attached and has normal vascular activity. The Sonographer was unable to find any evidence of blood clots or pools that would explain my recent bleeding. This may mean that the clot/blood pool (subchorionic hemorrhage) that was visible in an ultrasound at 6-ish weeks has healed, which is great.

[Aside, I have to wonder if the placenta previa explains the bleeding. It can cause bleeding, usually much later on (keeping in mind that the condition is usually diagnosed several weeks later), which is red and painless, just like what I experienced this past week.]

Bleeding like this is labeled a "threatened miscarriage" by the medical community, which isn't the most comforting choice of words. We have, however, gotten past week 12, and we're hopeful for a quieter week 13. As you may imagine, the myterious bleeds are still a cause of concern. As the doctor put it, "I hope that was just a freak occurance and that you won't have further problems." We hope so, too. We'd appreciate your prayers to that end.

In the meantime, I am trying to keep myself pretty low-key in terms of excitment and activity. The bleed came just about the time I decided that I was fine, so I may have overdone it - if overdoing it means just doing things around the house and occassionally venturing outside. *sigh*

And now, as promised... our little trooper!