I woke up at 5:24 this morning and stumble-waddled my way through the dark for yet another trip to the bathroom.
I sat there, on the throne, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror through vision hazy from sleep, and whispered out loud, "It's almost over."
As soon as the words left my lips and drifted off into space, a mix of varied emotions weaved their way up from my toes to my belly where my hands were interlaced. My fingers tensed as each emotion swept through and around me, each one squeezing tightly and then releasing me much like the contractions I've been having the past six weeks.
So many contractions. Two trips to L&D. Body pumped full of medications to stop them but they've refused to surrender. They are tenacious and stubborn, insistent on being present. Stronger and more frequent than Braxton Hicks, but not productive enough to fully initiate labor. They last for hours, pulsing and squeezing, tightening and releasing me sometimes one to two minutes apart, at others three to five, and at their slowest every twenty to thirty. They are overwhelming and tiring at their most frequent intervals and annoying at their slowest.
They are altogether frustrating, and their constant presence since week thirty have taken a toll on my psyche. At times they are all I can think about, my nerves on edge, trying to decide if I should call the nurse line and go in or just ride them out. Confusion and doubt often set in, intermingling with the pain, setting my OCD senses tingling and on high alert. My thoughts often ruminate during the more intense rounds and I often can't tell if I'm losing my mind, responding mentally and emotionally as any pregnant woman in my situation would, or just being melodramatic and hormonal.
The past two weeks they've been accompanied by nausea, cramps, back aches, loose bowels, loss of appetite and a drop in weight -- all of your textbook signs of your body preparing for birth and early labor. "Your labor will most likely be very slow in the beginning, much like your last," said my OB last week. "Which we want, because we want to keep him in just another week or two longer. Your cervix is stubborn, which we need it to be right now. Hang in there. Let's see what happens. Hopefully next week we'll start to see some big changes!"
So here I am, sitting on the toilet at 5:24am, at 35 weeks and 7 days, staring at the start of week 36 with an aching back and pulsing thighs...nauseated...exhausted yet mind abuzz with energy...body contracting physically and emotionally...forcing myself to whisper words to counteract the anxiety that has separated itself from the emotions pulsing around my belly and wound its way up to my chest, squeezing my heart until it feels as though it will burst from the constriction.
"It's almost over."
"Hang in there."
"Pregnancy is a shitty and invasive force of Nature that always biologically beats my body into submission, but it's worth the end result."
The end result being my third child, another boy.
After the anxiety passes, my interlaced fingers tighten their hold on my belly and I feel the other emotions that remain creating a sense of heat around my womb, both inside and out.
Yes, it's almost over and there is excitement. There is anticipation. There is a desire for joy to meet me at the end when I peer into his eyes and behold the mystery behind them for the first time; the first glimpse into him, this tiny stranger, an extended combination of my husband and I that has been growing and squirming restlessly within me for nine months. There is hope. There is an eagerness to begin this new season of my life as a mother to him and his brothers, a mother of three. There is a shout wanting to shoot it's way from my soul and burst forth from my lips in exaltation at what a year it's been for me, for my husband, for the boys individually, and for our family as a whole. This child, this boy, is the culmination of the new life we set out to build for ourselves back in April of 2012; when my husband and I sat in an IHOP in Philly, allowing restoration to heal our broken relationship. He is the embodiment of our new life as a whole unit, and the cairn directing our steps towards yet another new way forward for our family.
I've had each of my children during life altering transitions and significant periods of growth in my life, and the timing of this child's birth will be no different. What he embodies and signifies in my life at this moment are special to me, just like his brothers. Brennan healed my heart from my past, he is my empathy, my reincarnated self given another chance at a peaceful and full childhood; he showed me that I was good, and clean, and capable at motherhood and life. Alex is the one who challenged me in new and painful ways that were unexpected but oh so necessary. His entrance into my life dug itself deep into my core and unearthed in me things I had yet to see, and shone a harsh light on what I need to face and finally deal with. He shifted me as a woman, a mother, a believer...with him I was forced to throw all I thought I knew and carve out a new way of living and thinking. Alex taught me how to take care of myself and make my well-being a priority -- a first for me. Alex pushed me out of the stagnant, boxed up life I had been living and out into a world I hadn't let myself explore. He pushed me up and out of the rubble of the past 29 years and into wholeness -- into my real self. I am the woman I am right at this very moment because I gave birth to him.
And here I am with this one. I know what he means to me personally, as a mother, and our life as a family in one sense...but he remains a complete mystery to me in another, which I find exciting and my being twinges with eagerness to learn and explore the world through his eyes as I have through his brothers.
And yet there is also fear of what's to follow once we make our way back out through the hospital doors, and back to our home where the adjustment and shift of our family dynamic will begin to take shape; permanently rooting itself in our lives, our family.
Will I relapse? Will I catch it before it sucks me in? What if I can't get appointments or calls in to my therapist and psychiatrist because of how slow and overbooked the VA appointment system is? How will I handle the hard and the overwhelming task of meeting the needs of three children, who are all at very different stages and seasons of life? My husband being unavailable due to work obligations? Fluctuating hormones and fatigue?
And the boys: How will Alex adjust to the change and new presence, both as a three-year-old, and as a child who struggles with change and disruption of routine on the sensory level? Will his ABA based preschool be enough of an outlet for him? How will Brennan feel as the oldest? So much of the focus has been on Alex and his therapies these past months, I often wonder if I've given him enough attention; and now with a newborn....
There is fear...despite all of the knowledge, support, and awareness I have, despite knowing that I'm at a much different place in life than I was when Alex was born and suffered through that first year...there is a lurking fear that sits and stares me directly in the eyes, making me all the more aware of the reality of my illness and how stress, change, and motherhood trigger it.
So I am here at 5:24 in the early dark of morning, with foggy eyes squinting through the bright bathroom lights at my pregnant self, fingers tightly interlaced across my belly. Body and mind are engulfed in emotions that jar against each other, breathing deeply and staring back at what has been, and into what lies ahead. Feeling new life roll and jab in a space that is becoming too cramped and ready to be birthed. Ready but yet not ready. Craving for it to be over, yet continue on because what's on the other side is still dark and unseen in a few areas. On the brink yet still stuck in the space and feelings between old and new. Waiting.
More from parenting