Earlier this week, I got taken off bed rest. I have never so appreciated being able to go to Costco (my shopping nemesis) as when I was not allowed to. Oh the glory of being mobile!
But the glory was short lived. Yesterday, it was back to bed rest for me, thanks to the return of regular contractions, which have since disappeared with my re-relegation to the couch.
It's strange -- over the past few weeks, the threat of going into preterm labor never felt real. Although I dutifully am obeying my doctor's resting orders, it just hasn't felt very serious to me.
Until yesterday. I don't know what it was, but now I am scared.
I haven't felt scared this entire pregnancy. That is to say, I haven't felt scared only, without anxiety or doubt or hope or grief mixed in.
Now I feel afraid. Pure fear. I spent much of yesterday on the knife edge of tears.
I think I am afraid because we have passed the point of no return. Past the point where I might -- might -- be okay if another of our babies died. I am no longer able to reserve some of my heart, to guard against the umpteen tragedies that could so easily befall us. Again.
I am in this. I am expecting to take my baby home. The horrible "if" of this pregnancy has been replaced by a perhaps even more horrible "when."
I can't be numb to the joy any longer.
And it's terrifying.
The closer this baby boy's birthday draws, the more terrifying life becomes.
There are no words to describe it, really, and no words to defuse the fear. It just is.
So I am knitting baby hats like mad to keep my hands busy, trying to rest in God's enough-ness, and hoping my way through even though this is one of the scariest things I have ever done.