Expectations

Congratulations
“Congratulations!” is the phrase most often uttered when people find out I am expecting another baby. I suppose the sentiment is heartfelt and appropriate, definitely so for the birth of a child, don’t get me wrong. In that case “congratulations” are merited on two accounts: 1) you just welcomed a new life, a whole new person into the world (what could be more miraculous?) and 2) you just got that new life out of your body where it caused all sorts of discomfort and trauma. Congratulations! But, when it comes to pregnancy the sentiment, at least for me, has always seemed misapplied.

Given how I am feeling lately, hearing congratulations at the news of my “condition” feels a bit like being told, “Well done, I am so happy for you,” upon announcing that following a recent trip to South America, I have discovered that I am apparently a host to tape worms. These worms have been growing in my belly wrecking havoc on my gastrointestinal system. As a result, I find myself vomiting on average twice a day; I experience constant overwhelming nausea. And yet, by some amazing force of nature, this same parasite has also caused extreme constipation. I am constantly exhausted, to the point that showering, dressing my kids, pouring bowls of cereal for breakfast, and driving my daughter to school fatigues to the same point I remember being at after having run a half marathon with a terrible cold! In any case, the daily reality of providing a fertile environment for the growth of a new member of our species does not feel at present like any cause to celebrate.

However, despite how lousy I feel, for the first time in my life history, I really thought in advance about having this baby.

The First Time
My first daughter was such a surprise that, in addition to the above mentioned effects of pregnancy on my physical health, I spent the first few months in a state of nearly comatose shock. I was married, sexually active, and should have perhaps thought more about the fact that a child may arrive on the horizon at any given moment. But, I was also using birth control and planning a very different life path. I had just journeyed to Boston with my husband to look into housing options while we both were to simultaneously live out our dreams of an Ivy League graduate education. Everything was falling into place: I had paid a several hundred dollar deposit for my spot in the law and social work program at Boston College; I had been awarded a scholarship to attend there, and my husband was planning to attend law school at Harvard. Then, three weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant.

I went to work the next day and stared blankly at the computer screen in front of me, just trying to keep breathing for the first week, accomplishing nothing besides letting the news soak in. For the first while, I thought – I must admit I even hoped – maybe I will just have a miscarriage. It was just part of my overwhelming state of denial. A way to escape dealing with the approaching reality of motherhood.

But, the pregnancy did not end. It progressed, bringing with it nausea and sickness. At work, I dismissed myself from multiple meetings with lobbyists and constituents to go throw up in the bathroom, pull myself back together, and return to pick up our discussion in a poised manner. Meanwhile, I reconciled myself to the fact that life was not going to be the same. I recreated my vision of the future, put on hold my own personal plans, and embraced the fact that if I was going to be a mother I would make it my highest priority, not something that happened on the sidelines of the life I had planned for without children.

I marveled at the great conspiracy of women who talk in glowing terms about the joys of motherhood and never disclose to you, until you are experiencing it yourself, the hefty physical price paid for the nine preceding months – and those following. (In addition to pregnancy, a year without consistent sleep can also do crazy things to your personal sanity and happiness!)

The Second Time
Pregnancy the second time came with a bit more planning. I knew much more what I was getting into. We also knew we wanted more than one child, and once the first had arrived, we had to think about how close or far apart we would like them to be and when it would be a good idea to conceive a sibling for our daughter who was growing up every day. I was still learning to see myself as a mother, to believe I really had a child, when people began asking when we may be having more. When my older daughter was 2 ½ was the first time I could even think about being pregnant again. And, that thought was about all it took. I thought it, stopped my pills for a week, and was expecting baby number two.

I had great hopes for my second pregnancy. Unlike time number one, which found me unprepared, overstressed by life choices -- a cross-country move, remodeling a new house, and constant sickness -- this time I was going to do it “right.” I had just run my first marathon; I was exercising regularly, in good shape, and had read up on safe ways to continue the regimen during pregnancy. This time I was going to eat right, feel good, and stay active. Or so I thought!

Pregnancy two was worse than the first time around. Not just in terms of how my physical body felt, but in terms of the mental effects of juggling the realities of sickness and a very active two year old. My daughter began pretending to vomit in the toilet regularly, “just like mommy.” She spent hours sequestered in the basement that spring and summer amused by a never ending stream of videos and little else. Her moody mother stopped cooking altogether, offering her easy mac out of the microwave and regular trips to Subway, where all Mommy ate were the Cheetos. I did NOT exercise. At some point, about 18 weeks, when some of the vomiting lessened, I took slow walks in the evening when my husband could do the stroller pushing. I am usually fast, leading the pace, he nearly running to keep up. Now, I would drag myself up the street, getting winded regularly and asking him to please, slow down. Worst of all, I felt far more discouraged and depressed than I did the first time, perhaps some combination of guilt and hormones. In any case, it was a rough nine months.

Somewhere in this process, I advised my husband that I was VERY satisfied with having two children. Two was perfect. I could handle two. I have never been a big crowd person. One-on-one conversations, small group gatherings, intimate moments have always been more my style. I hate large parties, mingling, small talk, noise, chaos. I crave being able to quietly sit with my children; I need to know what they are thinking and experiencing individually. I have never wanted or been able to figure out how I could provide this attention more than a few children. Plus, given my oldest daughter’s temperament, I was not certain that I could handle even two. And, the fact that any future delivery would mean another cesarean section and long recovery, well in sum, I was finished.

Being Finished
So after my second daughter was born, I was stunned by the random thoughts that would pop into my head. I remember rocking her one day, still a newborn, my older daughter playing happily on the floor, when this errant gem showed up: “You think you are happy now; you can’t imagine how content and happy you will feel when you have your last baby.” What?!? “This is my last baby. I am content now,” I wanted to scream back. But somewhere deep within it rang true. And, it did not happen only once. Several times I would feel like my mind was opened to a vision of the future, a similar moment of loving a baby, but not the baby I was then holding.

Then, there were all the trips to the temple. Spiritual feelings are always hard to describe and seem a bit put-on when you are not personally the one experiencing them, but I could not attend a session of temple worship from the moment my second daughter was born without feeling this sense of another child. It is so hard to put into words. But the more uncanny and concrete experiences started just after her first birthday.

One evening my husband said in passing, “You know, if we have another daughter sometime (to which I was still saying to him was going to be never!), I really like the name ‘Elsie.’” I did not know what I thought of the name, but from then on every time I would go to the temple, everyone I interacted with would be named “Elsie” – and it is not that common of a name. The woman who greeted me when I walked in the door would be named “Elsie;” the woman whose name I would be given on a card would be “Elsie;” the person who sat next to me, I would somehow discover, was named “Elsie.” The combinations and individual people varied, but a trip would not pass without at least two Elsie-encounters. We even moved across the country, and my first trip to the temple in Washington, DC produced three Elsie-encounters.

I felt like I was being bombarded. You don’t have to share my religious faith to recognize that when every worship service seems to contain the same message, perhaps God, or someone somewhere, is trying to communicate with you. Through all of this, I began to surrender to the idea of one more baby. Besides, my oldest daughter was relentless about wanting another sibling, and as I watched my children growing I could see that perhaps I could, possibly, handle one more. Maybe three would not break me.

So, of course, given that I finally came to really want and feel committed to having a baby, it took over six months to conceive. During this time I played the realist. I finished projects and put things in order so that when I laid on the couch for three months straight I would not be surrounded by unfinished messes; I tried to prepare myself for the worst, so that when I felt miserable again I would not be so disappointed. I told myself that I could handle this. I knew it would end (I had wondered at times during my first pregnancy if all I was feeling really was due to pregnancy, perhaps it was not, and I would never enjoy eating again!), and I recognized in my daughters the reality that it was worth it. But, despite all this mental self-talk and preparation, pregnancy number three has been no less trying.

This Time
I am not sure that all of the “preparation” has done anything to blunt the reality of coping with constant sickness. I have thrown up more and felt worse than in either preceding pregnancy. But, it has been the mental havoc that has been the most challenging this time around. Expecting my first daughter involved two primary emotions: shock and awe. I spent the first half in absolute shock and denial, the second half constantly in awe of what was happening inside of me. My second pregnancy found me experiencing greater depression in addition to more nausea, but it was nothing compared to this.

As this pregnancy began, I felt a fog descending upon me. I thought, “This is just because I am gearing up for the worst, dreading what is to come. I just need to have a more positive attitude.” But, all of my efforts to look on the sunny side of life seemed to fail. With each passing day I slipped further away. I began to feel despondent, hopeless. I wanted to spend all day every day in bed, not just because any movement made me feel like I would throw-up, but because I could not compose one rational thought of what I wanted to or could do with myself each day. I felt like an outsider in my own life with little power to control anything. And, I still do.

Three months down now, with six to go, I am a little less nauseous than I was several weeks ago. Sometimes, I even eat something that tastes good to me – for about five minutes – and last week I had four days when I did not vomit at all. But, I cannot shake the discouragement that clouds my days.

I try to tease it apart and provide coherent explanations, with the assurance that it will end – in six months, if not sooner. I tell myself: “What you are feeling is the complex result of a mixture of circumstances. 1- It is hormones. 2- Anyone who felt sick for three months would begin feeling down. 3- You stopped exercising cold turkey three months ago, your body is suffering from an extreme lack of endorphins – no endorphins, no happiness. 4- You can’t be the mother and person you want to be now. It is frustrating to you to not have energy and accomplish things, but you just need to accept that it is temporary and stop feeling guilty….” And so on and so forth all day. It makes sense how all of this would combine to create an overwhelming sense that my life is falling apart, that nothing I have chosen from my home, to where I live, to quitting work has been the right choice, and – worst of all – that there is little to nothing I can do to change it.

I think this powerlessness and sense of failure is the worst feeling that comes. Normally, I feel empowered. I face problems head-on and figure out how to solve them. Now any problem seems to consume me, to be far beyond the scope of what I can affect. I am impotent as I stare out of the obscure glass through which I view my life. Not even certain to what extent I am living in it.

Last year, while passing through the challenges of making a job change for my husband, selling a house, and moving across the country, I was working hard to learn the attribute of patience. I read an article from a nurse midwife that talked about patience in life and used pregnancy as a metaphor. Reading this article, I had an epiphany: I hate being pregnant, in part, because I am simply not a patient person. I don’t like having to wait nine months for the outcome. I don’t like the uncertainty of pregnancy -- the first half when I don’t know the gender of the baby, the fact that I don’t really know what the baby will be like, and all that can potentially go wrong, which provides ample grounds for worry. Besides, and perhaps worst of all, I feel powerless to affect the results. I can’t hurry up the process; I can't make myself feel better; I can’t control whether the baby will develop appropriately or arrive in this world safely; and I cannot assess the progress. I can’t see what is happening and reassure myself that all is well – I have to trust doctors and nurses and God.

And so, pregnancy provides a mirror through which I can view all of my greatest human failings. My impatience, my inability to let go and trust others, my desire to be in control of things, my inability to accept difficult and unpleasant circumstances – even when I know that they are temporary. It is never easy to confront your dark side, all your weaknesses at once. Plus, my performance as a wife and mother and person has been abysmal lately.

This is where the story finds me today. Still trying to piece together a life, some meaning in my existence. Feeling sick again, typing on the computer, trying to see out of the shadows that threaten to overtake me. I pull myself together each day as best I can and pray for patience. Deep down I know that life is much better than it feels. I find small moments of happiness reflected in the faces of my daughters and relish those.

Abundance
Several weeks ago I sat down to search online for the meaning of the name that had been woven through the process of expecting this baby. (Still not knowing if it would be a girl or if we really wanted to name a baby “Elsie Jane.”) I figured I should know what it meant, think about whether I liked it. I found a few websites and read the information. “Elsie Jane,” in sum, means “God’s gift of abundance” or “God’s graciousness and plenty.” I had no idea what the name would mean – for all I knew it could have meant “ugly flower” or “shining reindeer” -- but reading this I felt a warmth descend upon me. I knew then, that despite the darkness and the sickness, the doubt and the worry, the gift of this child would be an overflowing of love and abundance. That somehow all the suffering of the moment would give rise to happiness and love so plentiful I could not now imagine it.

In scriptures, Jesus is always creating plenty out of the ordinary and the lacking. Wine from mere water, feasts for the multitude from a few loaves and fishes, medicinal remedies from clay and spit or a dirty pool of water. “God’s abundance.” That was the promise whispered to my heart when rocking my second daughter, still believing I just could not have another, and then repeated to me over and over again. This is the promise I repeat to myself each day, and when I do, I try to congratulate myself on the expectations of all that truly awaits me.