Law and Lawlessness

The University of Chicago Law School recently paid respects to the late Professor David Currie. While I didn't have Professor Currie's as an instructor, his remarks to my graduating class during our hooding ceremony made a distinct impression:

When one of Shakespeare's characters says the first thing to do is kill all the lawyers, it's not another bad joke about the legal profession. It's not Shakespeare himself speaking even in fun. He puts the words in the mouth of a rabble-rousing demagogue who wants to put an end to law and order and liberty and knows it's hard to do while there are courts and judges and lawyers to defend them.It is no less praiseworthy to defend those whom society disdains.

Professor Currie's remarks are not hypothetical. The front page of today's New York Times shows a lawyer -- in full business wear, looking as lawyerly as anyone you'll find in an American court house -- throwing a firebomb. He's one of many: Pakistani Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry is urging lawyers across Pakistan to "convey my message to the people to rise up and restore the Constitution.” Indeed. These lawyers aren't just admirable defending the downtrodden. In the face of national emergency, in defiance of military orders, they've literally taken up arms to defend the very rule of law.

We know that law gives society its fundamental functioning. It's easy to forget that it entrusts the lawyers such a fundamental responsibility. How close are we in the American Bar to being so soberly reminded?

Deep Greens and Blues

So, I don't blog much these days. I'm not journaling or emailing like I used to either. This season of my working/mom life doesn't leave much time or energy to document my thoughts. But we're doing great. Physically -- oof that was rough, but apparently I'm tougher than I thought. The first of many follow-up tests has shown no signs of remaining disease. So, I can take a deep breath and look forward to a long life where I eventually die of something other than cervical cancer. My beautiful daughter is fine, too. Considering all the agony we went through counting the days and weeks until she'd be a viable fetus, she's turned out ridiculously strong, fat, and healthy. There's no sign, anywhere on her, of the whole ordeal. I've looked.

Emotionally, it's a longer road. I'm trying to be honest with myself about the rough spots while enjoying the sweet ones. I don't think I've figured it out yet. I did find unexpected inspiration in this Sunset Magazine article about Susan Marinello, a Seattle Interior Designer. Her picture caught my eye -- she has a calm and confident look and very skinny arms. The article describes her background (fashion model, interior designer) and her philosophy (enlarging small spaces by bringing outdoorsy palettes inside). When it comes to color, she says, "I'm not afraid."

I loved this -- I love that Susan Marinello is unafraid of color. It makes me wonder why I'm afraid so often. I compared myself to her. Am I afraid because my arms haven't been that skinny since the 9th grade? I tried to dismiss her as a lightweight, with nothing to fear in life than choosing the wrong green or blue. But that devalues the work of any businesswoman with a marriage and big clients -- on a daily basis, she's likely taking on as much responsibility as I ever have practicing law (which can make me afraid) or mothering two young children (which makes me very, very afraid).

Which might mean, that all my trials (literally) and tribulations, in the end, are just so much green and blue. What is there to be afraid of?

Healing Hurts

That's really all I have to say right now. 20 days after surgery, my body is working hard on becoming whole again. My 10-inch incision is shrinking as my belly slowly contracts back to what it was before pregnancy (is "contracts" an ironic word to use, when you don't have a uterus?) Every day I'm a little stronger, but every day something new seems to hurt. The pain of nerves waking up, ligaments knitting themselves together, cauterized veins and arteries casting listlessly around (I imagine) to find a new home.

I think healing is like that. The stronger we are, the more we can feel. For almost three years, I've regretted going into "denial" after my sons' birth. I lied to myself about my feelings and pretended that I was okay with it all. I wasn't. Anxiety and depression seeped under my door like a cold fog, chilling me with an insidious and demanding pain. It took months (even years) before I could look squarely at that experience and all those feelings. But in those early days, in the dark of winter with a newborn -- a new mother, with a new scar and a bunch of new problems -- was it so bad to blind myself? What's so bad about waiting until we're strong enough to feel it all?

So I don't know yet, what I feel about all this. I've tried to write about my daughter's delivery and surgery, but so far I can't even finish the Customer Service Survey I got from the hospital. I just don't remember -- or want to remember -- it all. So far I can say this: That I was hysterical with fear in the hospital admitting lobby. That both teams of surgical staff were poignantly sensitive-enough and conducted themselves professionally throughout the surgery. That I remained conscious, without crying or vomiting, for the entire delivery until I saw and heard my daughter (ten feet away from me under her own oxygen mask, because "she's early" and "her lungs didn't get cleared by a vaginal birth.") I remember saying "okay, Josh, I'm done," to the anesthesiologist (younger than me!) and awoke hours later asking to breastfeed my baby. That I did feed her, and fell in love so suddenly that it surprised me. That I hit unimaginable physical and emotional lows in the hospital, but came home, and started to get better.

That's all for now. The baby and I are fine. Having a newborn is demanding, but I remind myself that this is only "for now" -- my baby wakes up every three hours at night, for now. She nurses ravenously and then spits up in my hair, for now. She is sometimes unconsolable, sometimes precious. Sometimes her socks fall off and get lost because they are so tiny. For now. So we are fine. I find myself welcoming the challenge and not overwhelmed by the cold or darkness that I expected. For now.

Ready or not . . .

Our baby will be here by Thursday. This is both thrilling and daunting, as I guess pregnancy always is. Like anyone in their 39th week, I'm ready to be done with the heartburn, the waddling, and the constant bathroom trips. Thankfully the weather has cooperated and we've only had a few uncomfortably hot spells this summer.

I'm joking that, having done the newborn thing before, at least we're not naive enough to look forward to it. Of course it will be wonderful to meet our daughter. But I hear myself saying "I'm ready to be done with this insomnia . . . " Oops. I know what challenges are to come. But I know other things too -- like my baby won't die from a sloppy nail clipping. I know more about my own strength. That I can survive on less sleep and fewer meals than I'd like to. I have a two year old who likes to say, "I a baby bird. I love you, Mommy Bird!" So I'm starting to understand why I have children in the first place.

The cancer thing is getting hard to ignore again. When I got diagnosed during my first trimester, I was consumed by the urgency -- one doctor after another telling me I'd need an immediate hysterectomy, regardless of whether anyone was living in my uterus. Then the tumor was safely removed, and I was consumed by relief. And it was easy to forget how serious it is. So I've spent most of this year complacently enjoying my time at home and planning for the new baby.

My anxiety crops up unexpectedly. Hearing the question "when are you due?" when I have a planned surgery date (which I'd otherwise fight tooth and nail). Listening silently while other moms talk about breastfeeding challenges and birth control (there's not a whole lot out there on nursing under the shadow of surgically-induced hormonal arrest). Definitively sorting maternity and baby clothes because I know this will be our last child. I don't fit in with most pregnancy discourse, and it makes me nervous.

Last week we met with the surgeon who described the details of the procedure -- the "dissections," the incision, the transfusion risk, the bladder complications. Nothing too unexpected. I still found myself dizzy and choking back tears. Could this really be about me?

I want to focus on the positive: the healthy, beautiful baby girl who will be joining our family in a matter of days. But I don't want to ignore the pain and loss. It's inevitable to lose one's sense of self with a newborn around. And when that self is physically or emotionally injured, ignoring it doesn't help. Survivors of birth trauma can find it impossible to admit any regret or suffering about their baby's delivery. Our culture tells us to pick between grief and love -- as if caring about birth is a self-indulgence that we could overcome if we only appreciate our children enough. As if we must judge our feelings instead of listening to them. At least I know better now.

I'm listening.

Talk Softly

I keep meaning to type a quick update . . . after so much turmoil earlier in the year, everything has settled down to the point that I find myself without much to say. I'm spending the summer stretching my budget beyond previously unimagined limits (this turned out not to be the best time to find a new job), planting peas and building "railroad castles" with my toddler, and enjoying what I can about the third trimester of pregnancy. Our daughter will be here in the middle of August.

Sometimes I feel remiss in not writing more. But I'm discovering the freedom of living beyond words. After years of school and desk work, constantly typing up all my ideas and feelings, it's liberating to live life without stopping to imagine its narration. Or as our son reminds us, when we get too worked up in debate and analysis around here, "Too woud, Mommy Daddy! Talk softwy." And sometimes, the quieter we are, the more peaceful it is.

I'm hoping that this might help when the baby is here, in those early days when our family is reduced to its fundamental functionings of eat and sleep. When Malcolm was born, I struggled to explain and express every detail of my Parenting Experience. Even my paradigm of being a "more intuitive parent" was entangled in intellectual conviction and cognitive research. Even the most intimate aspects of my family's experience -- our cloth diapers, our breastfeeding, my cesarean scar -- I strained to mentally justify, to respond to counteraguments (imagined or real), to politicize. Of course, it was good to care about my choices and even to become an advocate. But it exhausted me. At one point I realized that I honestly could not count higher than "two." And ultimately, mothering a newborn is impossible to think your way through (or around).

So we'll try again. To move through this next big challenge while really letting go of explaining and documenting it. To languidly answer "I don't know" to doctors and nurses who quiz me about infant care. To doze in sunbeams like a cat. To talk softly. To touch and feel and care for my children. Without rationale, without explanation. Accountable to no one but them.

Partly Sunny

This season of my pregnancy has been like a Seattle Spring. Moments of delicious, lilac-and-saltwater saturated sunshine, and moments of stark chill and darkness -- those times when we rush inside from the backyard to curl up under a blanket. Some days are sunnier, some are colder, but any given day could be forecast as “partly cloudy,” “showers,” or “partly sunny.” Which never really tells us what to wear, or how long we can be outside before coming in from the cold.

But most days really are partly sunny, if we‘re lucky and pay attention. And so I’m thinking of my life as “partly sunny,“ too. I’m expecting a baby girl, and enjoy the giddy relief of carrying her through the second trimester. I'm also preparing for a radical hysterectomy, as cancer treatment, when she is delivered this summer. Fear and thrill, grief and joy. It would be dishonest to say that the happiness outshines the anxiety. To pretend everything is fine is to lie -- and no more practical than wearing a sleeveless maternity dress on a day forecast for rain. Still, I’m inspired by what Elizabeth Edwards said, when asked whether encouraging her husband’s Presidential campaign, in the face of recurring breast cancer, is a kind of denial: that she will continue to deny cancer control over her life, every day that she continues to live.

So where's the balance? With luck and mindfulness, I can honestly immerse myself in sunny moments: The lush May branches arcing over our heads as I push my toddler’s stroller through the leafy streets of our neighborhood. His surprised exclamation that “we are FRIENDS!” as we cuddle before bedtime with his head on my growing belly. My daughter’s incessant thumping inside me -- already insisting on her own independent rhythm -- so much like the occasional bumping on the other side of the bedroom wall, as my son stirs in his sleep.

When I let myself rest in these sweeter times, I can feel the sun on my face and be fully thankful, in that moment, for all of our blessings. As my son sometimes says, looking around at his toys or our dinner table, “We have SO MUCH.” And we do. And when the clouds roll through -- when I’m temporarily chilled with the stress and fear of what’s to come -- I know better than to pretend it’s sunny. Sometimes, all we can wish for is a blanket to curl up under, and cry -- if we need to -- until the moment passes.

Robin's Cancer FAQ

Since so many people -- both strangers and my closest friends -- have learned about my cancer here, I'll provide a little more detail for everyone's information. I appreciate so much all the love and support shown by everyone throughout this whole time, even when I was not able to express exactly what was going on. Friendship, it turns out, takes more forms than I ever could have imagined.

What do you have?

I've been diagnosed with Invasive Carcinoma of the Cervix, Stage Ib1 (diagnosed as gross polyploid lesion less than 4cm), Squamous cell, Grade 3 (poorly differentiated), LVSI negative (no microscopic lymphovascular involvement within tumor), no lymph node enlargement visible on MRI, 1.5 mm of invasion with 6 mm of lateral invasive extent.

How did you find out?

I was diagnosed late in the first trimester of my pregnancy when I was examined for unusual bleeding. A visual exam revealed a growth on/in/through my cervix. At first the obstetrician assumed it was a benign growth, which apparently aren't unusual, but a subsequent biopsy showed that it was a Grade 3 (aggressive) cancer.

At 16 weeks of pregnancy, I underwent cervical conization surgery. While this was high-risk and not generally recommended for pregnancy -- the standard treatment for Stage Ib during the first trimester is immediate termination and hysterectomy -- it successfully removed the tumor and showed no involvement of invasion at the margins. Some noninvasive carcinoma (surface cells only) remains.

Are you okay?

The conization removed around 2 cm of cervical tissue. My pregnancy has been under close observation for early dilation due to cervical incompetence; so far everything looks fine. Because even microscopic cancer can spread quickly through the cervix and surrounding tissue, the safest treatment is a radical hysterectomy ("It's not your mother's hysterectomy.") Statistically, Ib1 patients treated this way have a 85-95% survival rate. Because of the success and positive indicators of the conization, I imagine myself to be on the high end of those numbers -- although the delay in treatment, due to pregnancy, has not been studied enough to know how that might affect the outcome.

How are you feeling?

In general, these days I feel . . . physically healthy, thankfully free of pain, surprisingly exhausted (I am fighting mild anemia and low weight gain as my second trimester comes to a close), conditionally grateful, and occassionally terrified.

This is so scary! Did you have any problems in the past that predicted this?

I had annual pap smears without fail between the ages of 18 and 30, and every two years after that. In 15 years, I had two occassions of abnormal pap smears: In 1994, I had some apparent dysplasia that resolved with no biopsy or further treatment. In 2004, when I was last pregnant, I had apparent "severe dysplasia" that either resolved after labor and deliver or was originally misdiagnosed. This appeared in a different location than my eventual tumor, which was found 16 months after my last (uneventful) exam and pap smear.

What do you think of the HPV vaccine?

That it is ridiculously politicized, commercialized and aggressively marketed for a preventative measure that might save 10,000 occurrences of cancer a year; If only our culture put this much emphasis into other fundamental women's issues. But I have no particular concerns and it appears to be as effective and low-risk as any new vaccine. Selfishly, I find it pretty annoying to have an illness that is the year's hot topic. It makes me self-conscious and clutters information resources for actual cervical cancer patients.

What's Next?

My daughter will be delivered by cesarean section immediately prior to my radical hysterectomy. This will involve about five hours under general anesthesia and about six weeks of serious physical recovery. If all goes well, this will happen in August.

No, I am not confident that this is best for the baby's health, due to the risks of cesarean delivery and disruption of breastfeeding. I am a little more confident that it is the better alternative for my own health, but deciding on how and when to be treated have been difficult decisions. I have not lost my trust in birth and my skepticism about medicine, just because because I'm a cancer patient. And because it's not up to my doctors to "let" me do anything -- delay treatment, go to full term, deliver vaginally -- the final responsibility for these decisions rests only with me. Which is a huge headache.

I will have a pelvic lymph node dissection which will give more information on whether the cancer has mestastized. If all goes well, I'll be carefully observed every few months for a matter of years, and might eventually be categorized as "NED" (No Evidence of Disease). If all doesn't go well, my remaining treatment options are radiation and/or chemotherapy. Which, I try not to think about much.

You Should Be Grateful! After all, all that matters is a healthy baby.

Okay, no one has really said this. Please don't, or I will have to kick some ass.

All That Matters Is . . .

It's almost ironic that, finding myself pregnant with cancer, I'm drawing strength from what I've learned as a fledgling birth activist. A staunch VBAC advocate, fighting for the chance at a 26-week cesarean? A family-unplanner, researching sterilization surgery? It's not easy to apply my old convictions to my new situation. But it's helping.

Tonight I'm thinking about gratitude. Survivors of birth trauma are haunted by the reprimand that they "should be grateful," because "all that matters is a healthy baby." Reading You Should Be Grateful, the groundbreaking essay by Gretchen Humphries, was the starting point for my healing after my son's delivery -- during those first months when I worried that I wasn't "grateful" enough for my healthy child to forget the pain of a lost birth.

And here I am, at another starting point. The first day that my doctor called with a cancer diagnosis, I found myself huddled under the covers in bed, bargaining with God. And I heard myself say it -- "Lord, I will give up everything -- all that matters is a healthy baby." But I knew this wasn't true. I knew might be forced to judge -- brutally so -- exactly how much value I placed on this child's life. But I also knew that, however my other priorities might fall into shadow, they would still always matter. And what else could possibly matter? I've made a list:

Strength and Mobility Matter. I'm scared of the prospect of being temporarily immobile, incontinent, and disabled if I have a hysterectomy with a newborn. I'm trying to imagine this as a slow and quiet season in life, expecting little of myself and others, thinking only of healing. But I know it will be frustrating. If it hurts, I will let it hurt.

Bonding and Breastfeeding Matter. A cesarean-hysterectomy can take over five hours. Pain and recovery can be compounded many times over, compared to a cesarean alone. But the more I'm in the hospital, the more I learn not to fight pain medication, catheters, and IVs when my body still needs them for healing. This means that the first hours, or days, of my child's life might be spent without me able to feed or interact with them. I will grieve this.

Fertility Matters. By the end of the summer, I look forward to having two beautiful, healthy children to call my own. I live a life of abundance, filled with more love that any one woman deserves. Still I choke back tears when I read Hop on Pop. "Father, Mother, Sister, Brother/This one is my other brother." My children will not have "another brother." My family destiny has always been a matter of spiritual and marital trust and enterprise. It's an open horizon, closing into finition for reasons beyond my control. I will grieve this.

Youth and Sexuality Matter. About half of hysterectomy patients show signs of early menopause. Yes, I hear everyone's mother and mother-and-law have been doing really well lately with or without hormone supplements. They are inspirational to us all. I'm just not ready to be them. Whatever happens to my body, I will cope -- proudly, and with all the dignity and grace I can. But I will grieve whatever I lose of my 33-year old body.

Birth Matters. I still don't know whether a cesarean will be my safest bet in this situation. If it is, I'll deal -- but I won't like it. I will grieve my lost birth. I will feel disappointment and anger. I will write, sing and share this pain until I am healed. I will do this knowing that it cannot -- ever-- compromise the love I have for my children.

I'll probably think of other things that matter, as I go. I don't do this to be negative. I'm so, so grateful for the chance to have a healthy baby. Having thought long and hard about our lives (and deaths), I know exactly what "matters" most about me and my baby. But even if I don't lose it all, I'll still grieve what I lose. To deny this would be to lie and cheat myself. To accept this is to accept life and loss -- and to gain the strength to move through pain, to eventually find something more.

Seeing Thestrals

Good news here -- Last week's surgery comfortably removed the tumor with room to spare. The pathology report indicated clean margins, no lympho-vascular involvement, minimal invasion, and other various happy things (all interspersed with the word "carcinoma," again and again). I spent yesterday getting MRI scans, and will still likely need a hysterectomy after delivering this baby. There is some risk in delaying treatment for a few months, but it's easily outweighed by the opportunity to carry the baby safely to term. So I can start saying "due in August" again, after all, without the catch in my throat that says "or so I hope."

Now after three weeks of waiting, the world seems so much brighter. I can take my boxed-up maternity clothes out of the attic. I can look at my son, and see him as the beautiful older brother he's going to be. But I feel a little like Harry Potter at the beginning of Book 5 -- when he's shocked to see that the magical Hogwarts carriages are drawn by skeletal winged horses that he's never noticed before. The beasts are called thestrals. Harry sees them for the first time because he's seen death.

I won't be melodramatic -- I live a lucky and luxurious life where I'm pretty much insulated from these things. Especially my own mortality -- me, a healthy, 33-year-old woman who has only been to three funerals, ever. But I think I'm starting to understand how it works. When I first got my diagnosis, I explained indignantly to my loved ones that I am FINE. This cancer cannot be a threat to ME, because the prognosis (when properly treated) has a stellar survival rate (as far as cancer goes). But really, I was trying to say, "you don't understand. I'm Robin. I'm right here. My life can't be at risk -- that's not the way it is."

But now I've had time to think about the way it is. In more painful moments, when my heart cried out "Why this? Why me?" the answer was too simple: "What the hell were you expecting?" How can I have a life-threatening illness? Because all of us die. Or as I've started flippantly saying, "we all have cancer." It's just a matter of whether we'll live long enough for it to slip out of the shadows and into our nuclei. All 6 billion people living on Earth will eventually die; I'm not particularly special, just because I'm looking it a little more closely in the eye.

The ugliness of this reality -- like the grotesque thestrals with their leathery wings -- can be overwhelming. But it's reassuring to see the truth that's been invisible until now. This life isn't magic. It's finite, even temporary. I'm not immortal. And this reality can make every little thing (and every big thing) -- the pregnancy, fresh tulips, a hug, toy trains, my family -- that much more delicious.

The Audacity

If you haven't been keeping up with me, I'll warn you that things around here have turned serious. My life has entered into the Twilight Zone -- and not one of its happier edges where Santa Claus is real. I have cancer; I don't know whether my baby (due in August) will survive the treatment. I apologize, because I'm sick of dropping the depressing news on people who know me. But it's become ridiculous to pretend it's not happening.

So I'm learning about hope, and I'll title this along the lines of Senator Obama's book -- The Audacity of Hope -- because I feel absurdly audacious these days when I answer "How are you?" with a simple "fine." I'm not "fine." The past three weeks have been all about waiting. Waiting for doctors to call back, waiting for test results, waiting for surgery to be scheduled. Each time I wait, my life pauses for hours or days, and I can decide whether to be fatalistic (to avoid disappointment) or hopeful (and risk discouragement).

And "getting my hopes up" is something I've thought about before, in pregnancy. Pregnancy means "expecting." For months on end, we really don't "have" anything but heartburn, swelling, eventually some kicks and tumbles in our bellies -- nothing but the expectancy that this will lead to a day when we look into the eyes of our newborn child. Pregnancy is all about hope. And when it comes to the hard stuff -- whether to give birth naturally, whether to get your heart set on breastfeeding -- we're often afraid to hope for much at all. We tell ourselves, "I'm being flexible, so I won't be disappointed." As if it's the moment of letdown -- and not the actual loss -- that can ultimately hurt us.

So we protect ourselves with low expectations, and this isn't always enough. In my last pregnancy, I failed to prepare for natural birth (of course, not helping my chances) because I was afraid to admit I wanted it. I thought that, if I avoided conviction about birth, I would avoid disappointment. But the pain came anyway, even when I had so carefully avoided "getting my hopes up." How could I grieve something I tried so hard not to want?

Because some things suck. I decided, early in this pregnancy, that no matter how hard it is, I'd go ahead and hope for the best. That used to mean "insisting on VBAC" instead of "Maybe they'll let me have a trial of labor." Now things are crazy, but I'm hoping anyway. "Disappointment" isn't my worst case scenario any more. I have cancer. What do I have to lose by getting my hopes up?

Hope looks different around here, each day. Last week, I said out loud "I've decided that I'm fine," and ended up with my hopes crushed to tears after reading two more independent pathology reports. Yes, I felt stupid and embarrassed for having high expectations. I could have spent that week expecting the worst, and I wouldn't have any "hope" to be "crushed" when the oncologists came into the consultation room. Was I in denial, or just being optimistic? Was I feeling the pain of "crushed hopes?" Or just the pain of this damn situation?

This week, as I wait to hear whether last week's surgery got "clean edges" around a tumor, hope means shopping for baby clothes (just a few) without thinking too intently on when they might be worn. Hope means sending out job applications, without knowing for sure when I'll be available for work. Maybe this is delusional. But I can't clear a year off my calendar in case I end up unable to walk. I can't ignore the child wiggling in my tummy, when a few brief weeks of affection might be the most love I'll ever be able to give.

It's an awful, awful struggle. But I can't live as if I've already lost it. So, at the risk of "getting my hopes up" -- I'll go ahead and raise them high to shine in the sun. And see what happens next -- Maybe I'll even go for that VBAC.

Danger, Data, Drama

I've been thinking about how we learn about risk and safety. In a world of hidden threats, what is danger? How do we know what to fear? A car cruising at freeway speeds with sleepy children buckled in back. Pills prescribed by a trusted doctor. Invisible pollutants. Unprotected sex. These things can kill us -- but they probably won't. You can live a lifetime, unscarred by accident or disease, and never know whether you were safe and smart -- or just lucky.

It's through the collective wisdom of our community that we know about latent risk. I don't personally know anyone who's lost an infant in a car wreck. But I buckle my son in his five-point harness -- because I (and my government) have looked at the data and determined that, in the right circumstances, it could make a difference between life and death. I've done this with almost every parenting choice I've faced -- whether to supplement with formula; whether to vaccinate; what kind of medical interventions to accept during childbirth, and which ones to avoid.

And no matter what we disagree on, all moms seem to agree that this is exhausting. We face information overload. We go to great lengths to avoid "risks" like artificial growth hormones and latex balloons -- and at some point, we have to let it go. "What's the harm?" We say. "How dangerous is it really?" My sister and I used to wrestle around on the floor of our Grandma's backseat while she smoked cigarettes and fed us colored marshmallows in the car -- and we turned out fine. Can a little peanut butter and a few unsupervised bathtimes really be that dangerous for our own children?

So at some point, we turn away from the data and the studies. We remember that we are mothers who can learn from other mothers. We value the knowledge of our friends, our sisters and mothers, as if we crave a primal community where we learn by sharing anecdotes. "I was induced at 38 weeks/ fed him baloney/let him use the walker," they say "and he turned out fine." Or on the other hand, "I know someone whose cousin had a VBAC/left him alone in his highchair/ fed them a raw carrot -- and they almost died!" The closer we are to these kind of horror stories, the more power they have over us. It's as if we are living in the wilderness and hear of our neighbors being attacked by a wild animal. The nearer they are, the more real the threat can seem.

Of course we need to temper our parenting decisions with common sense. And good old-fashioned Mom Talk can be a great source of support. But the wrong anecdote can overdramatize safe situations -- or veil the risk of threatening ones. When I hear about a friend's cousin's uterine rupture, for instance, I need to keep in mind where she fits into the big picture. With a 0.7% rupture rate, for every woman who experiences rupture there are over 142 who do not. Of course, it would take too long to counter a single rupture anecdote with 142 relatively boring stories about uneventful VBACs. So the dramatic anecdote survives, and thrives, until ultimately it threatens to distort the true risk of the situation.

And some risks are only apparent when viewed relatively. A .177% infant death rate for cesarean deliveries seems low enough to ignore -- until you compare it to the .062% rate for vaginal births (in a study of almost 12,000 babies who died in a 3-year period) . So while it's accurate for me to spread the word that "I had a cesarean and my baby is fine" -- is it intellectually honest? Over 4,000 of those babies died for no other discernible reason than a cesarean delivery. Was it smart decision of me to consent to surgery? Or was I just lucky?

And why does it matter? We can't be perfect mothers. We all take risks the moment we leave the house. And we crave and require each other's support. Tell me I'm not a bad mom; Tell me I'm not alone. Don't judge me. But I wonder if we're so hesitant to "judge" each other that we've lost our ability to use critical judgment where it's needed -- in analyzing important information about our children's health and safety. What will it take to give us the courage and confidence again?

For Reals

So, after months of debate, analysis and other attempts at finding "peace through argument" about childbirth, I find myself pregnant. (Okay, it's not as simple as one "finding oneself," but I'll skip that for today). And here I am again: in the middle of the night; alone in the car; huddled at my desk during the workday before I tell anyone at the office; Experiencing pregnancy as the fundamentally solitary, physical experience at the core of gestation and birth. Right now, it's much more visceral than verbal. So writing anything thoughtful about it seems, in a way futile.

Now that it's for real, I'm on a lonely journey. No matter how much "community" I sweep in around me, this pregnancy is mine and mine alone. Even my closest relationships -- my mother, my husband -- are satellites orbiting my own choices, and my direction. I felt this from the first moment I took a breath to announce my pregnancy. What to tell them? How to say it? It's all up to me. I am separate, relying on my words to connect me to everything outside myself. It's the same with my friends, with my journal, with support groups. It's as if, to be anything more than a lonely pregnant woman, I have to find out how to describe, explain and verbally connect with the outside world.

So far, this has meant lots of reading, talking, listening. Lots of theory, research anecdotes. And it's tiring, because meanwhile my body is growing a placenta and networks of blood vessels to support the little gummi-bear sized fetus who will zillion-tuple in size as it grows into the full-fledged person of my son or daughter. But in the meantime here I am trying to connect and learn as much as possible. Because I want this pregnancy to be different than last time. Healthier; more convicted; more confident. I keep thinking of my mantra from last fall -- With Love and Without Fear -- and honestly, these days it seems out of reach. So my new mantra is "courage." And Mark Twain said, "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear." So I know I will be afraid -- and do it anyway.

And what am I afraid of? Last time, I appreciated the value of natural childbirth, but I did little to prepare myself for it. I secretly hoped I'd be one of those women who found it "not that bad" and would end up saying, "by the time I asked for an epidural, it was time to push!" But I didn't commit to avoiding interventions. I didn't aggressively learn or practice other coping techniques. I went with standard OB care instead of a midwife, and didn't have a doula. Part of me, quite simply, didn't believe in birth -- and didn't care. This part of me was afraid.

I wasn't just afraid of the pain. I was afraid of disappointment; of wanting something that I wouldn't get. Of being one of those women who "thought they could birth naturally," but caved in, and turned out to be self-righteous ideologues who are no better than the rest of us. Looking back, I thought that disappointment was the biggest risk I faced. And by keeping my standards low, that I could avoid it. I was afraid to hope and afraid to care.

I was wrong. Now, I'm done second-guessing the medical treatment that surrounded my son's delivery. I've reviewed my records -- and yes I did have pre-eclampsia, and we all did the best we could with what we knew at the time. But what I can second-guess is myself. What if I had stayed mobile, without an epidural and could walk around or labor in the shower? What if I had more confidence in my body, and trusted myself to work with my contractions? I can't guarantee I won't have pre-eclampsia again this time. But there's a lot I CAN do to prepare myself, build my skills, and surround myself with supportive people.

I have a lot of other thoughts -- about whether regret is the mirror image of disappointment, and how they're really phantoms that distract from our actual fears. About where, and how, and with whom I'll have this baby. About my dreams for my family and my future. But that's a lot of words, for another day. So I'll stop talking, for now, and just keep listening.