Life 25 Weeks In

My dreams have been plagued with nightmares lately. A couple of nights ago, I dreamed of another bleed that landed me in a hospital that was unprepared to admit me due to overcrowding. I ended up in a make-shift shared room that hadn’t been cleaned after being on my feet entirely too long. I was exhausted, irritated, and incredibly fearful. Last night, I dreamed of demons and murder and trying to get people to rally together and pray. My insistence that Jesus is more powerful than the ugly and bizarre events we saw unfolding before our eyes went ignored by those I tried to reach. I could feel my resolve slipping.

It hasn’t just been nightmares, though. Lately, a whole slew of insecurities and fears, both about this pregnancy and about unrelated things that haven’t been called up for ages, have been fighting to come to light.

I feel as though I need to carry the name of Jesus around like a holy fly swatter, smacking down fears and other “yuck” that comes to the forefront of my mind. I am grateful He loves me enough to be my fly swatter, my defender. And I am grateful that He keeps coming through for me when I’m weak, time and time again.

When I started trying to figure out why all of this surfaced at once, it suddenly hit me:

It all started a few days ago when I realized I hadn’t had any bleeding—of any kind—and I allowed myself to feel relief.

It’s funny that when faced with this blessing, this break in stormy weather, I find myself incredibly grateful and yet still overwhelmed, still paranoid. Each day that passes with a piece of good news means I am growing more and more attached to this little squirt, and my ability to insert distance into this situation in order to guard my heart is failing. I know deep down that God wants that distance gone. I’m fairly certain He never wanted it there in the first place. He wants me to trust His love and to believe that He is enough (and for more than a scant few days at a time). I’m learning that it is easier to be afraid than hopeful, easier to be distant than vulnerable. I’m fairly certain the enemy knows that, too, and preys upon it. Still, God keeps calling me to Him. Love in its fullness may leave me raw, but ultimately, it is the very thing that heals.

So, baby-wise, I am 25 weeks, 5 days as of when I woke up this morning. Baby boy continues to be active, and his oldest sister loves to give him kisses through my belly and feel him move. Kate, on the other hand, apart from being fascinated with my now-popped belly button, remains oblivious. As I mentioned earlier, I have had several days now with no bleeding of any kind and very few moments of tenderness/contractions. I pray this trend continues!

At the specialist appointment I had last week, the doctor described my condition as a "chronic placental separation" that is bleeding slowly. It all seems to be tied to the fussiness created by the subchorionic hemorrhage early on. There was mention of the possibility I will end up back in the hospital on bed rest as this pregnancy progresses, but this isn't a given. The plan is to keep an eye on me and to monitor the baby's growth over time to watch for issues with growth restrictions due to the bleeding. Although the baby is on the small side of normal now, I keep trying to remember that my girls weren't big babies,either. I'm trying not to obsess over numbers and percentages and am trying instead to remind myself that God knows exactly what size this baby needs to be.

At the appointment I had with my regular OB later that week, my doc agreed with the specialist's assessment and prognosis. He told me I won't carry to term, but he's praying the baby and I make it to the 32-34 week mark. "If by some miracle," as my doctor put it, I reach 37 weeks, they will take the baby by c-section at that time because of my risk of rupture. 

My support system continues to amaze and overwhelm me. Meals, child care, help scrubbing my dishes and toilets—all is being provided graciously by family, friends, and co-workers. Watching everyone pull together to help me figure out getting a sick Kate home and then to the doctor this afternoon was one more example of the greatness of my family that I can add to a thousand others. Brian was swamped at work, so my sister retrieved Kate, Brian’s dad intercepted her, and my mom scooped her up later to take her to the doc. And no one complained or acted in the least bit inconvenienced. They hugged my little sickie, smiled at me, and laughed as they passed the baton. Blessed. So blessed.

See? All in all, we’re in a very good place.