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.