“Well, you’ll get to see more than my reaction.”
Of course, I’m not worried. There might have been a time when I’d have balked or been concerned with who might be able to hack in and see something like that, but those days are over. The few things I let take up valuable space in my life nowadays are either horrific worries or love.
There is no room for anything else.
Eighteen
Let’s Make It Baby
Lena
Spring comes early, something that both Nate and I embrace with unusual appreciation. It feels as though the heavens have bestowed yet another gift upon us, the weather clearing and warming so much so that I’m able to go outside and sit on our screened porch for a few hours each day.
Although the nausea and bloating haven’t increased, for which we are both exceedingly grateful, my energy has become nearly nonexistent. The signs of my disease still aren’t overly apparent in any other way, but in this manner, I know. I know what’s happening to me. This is more than just pregnancy-related fatigue. This is my body constantly fighting an invading foe.
And losing.
Still, when I wake each day, I’m glad I’m carrying my baby yet another step toward the goal. Bringing Helena Grace, a name which Nate insisted upon, into the world is the driving force in my life. Everything I eat, every step I take, every exhausting trip to the obstetrician, the oncologist, the herbalist, the internist, the chiropractor, it’s all done with one singular objective in mind—keeping the baby healthy.
I force myself to cram as many tasteless yet nutritious foods into my mouth as I can tolerate without throwing them back up. I walk when I don’t feel like it, drink water when I’m not thirsty, and get acupuncture once a week for pain I don’t feel.
Yet.
And it’s all working. The baby is growing and thriving, all my labs are (mostly) normal, and I’ve not only convinced myself, but Nate as well that I can do this. Everything is going along smoothly, as I hoped it would, and my faith is restored a little more each day.
Until one sunny afternoon in late March when a contraction hits. Nate and I are concluding our daily walk when the spasm takes hold. It steals my breath and causes my heart to pound with fear.
“It’s just Braxton-Hicks, I’m sure,” I tell my husband, fighting off a sense of panic as I try to convince myself of the same thing.
Slowly, we make our way back to the house where Nate escorts me to the bedroom. “You need to rest. You’re done for the day, young lady.” He’s attempting light and breezy, but I can see the terror in his eyes.
“Let me use the bathroom first, and then I’ll lie down.”
It’s in the bathroom that I see the blood.
That’s when I realize that I might be in trouble.
I’m only twenty-six weeks along. It’s too early to have the baby. I want to, no I need to make it to twenty-eight weeks. At least the baby will have a fighting chance then.
Please God, please God, please God, I pray as I right my clothes and shuffle back out to the bed.
“Nate, I don’t want you to worry, but I’m spotting. I’m going to call Dr. Stephens and see what she wants me to do,” I inform him calmly, taking my phone from my pocket and initiating the call. I will my hand to stop trembling. Nate needs my peace, not my panic.
Considering my overall condition, Dr. Stephens doesn’t bother with having me monitor my contractions and my bleeding; as soon as she hears “bleeding,” she orders me to go immediately to the Labor and Delivery department of the hospital. I’m not surprised. It’s what I would do for someone in this position.
As tranquilly as I can, I ask Nate, “Would you grab my overnight bag from the closet? The one that has all my hospital stuff in it?”
I planned ahead for an emergency trip to the hospital, of course. My circumstances are too shaky not to. I knew, right from the beginning, the likelihood that I’d get through this pregnancy, while battling cancer, without at least one unexpected trip to the hospital was extremely low. And so here I am, making my first trip.
I pray that I’ll be home soon, still carrying our child.
Although he makes no comment, I can tell by his jerky, abrupt movements that Nate is in a state of alarm. But still, he does as I ask and takes the bag from the closet. “I’ll run this to the car. Be right back.”
I can’t see him, but I assume he actually does run my bag to the car. I’d wager that the instant he was out of my sight, Nate flew through the house to the kitchen, snatched his keys from the dish on the counter, and bolted out the door and practically threw the bag in the back seat. The little mental video clip makes me smile despite my heavy, wary heart. I knew he would return to me all calm and cool and composed. No doubt he expended just enough of his excess energy and fright in that mad dash to the car to keep me from seeing it.
But I know.