Let me be clear: I hate Beth.
Well, hate is kind of a strong word. Let’s just say she’s my least favorite character on TWD. Everytime she opens her mouth I want to throw a brick at my tv, and when she sings I want to light myself on fire. Who put her in charge of a baby? Who gave her a gun? Why is she still alive? She’s creepy, pale, and annoying.
Ahem. With that out of the way…
My first high-risk appointment is tomorrow. I’ll fill out an extremely detailed 12-page medical history report. I’ll have blood drawn from every vein in my body. I’ll have an ultasound done with a machine the size of my living room. And that should be reassuring enough.
Except that it’s not. As the weeks creep by, and morning sickness fades out, and I enter my second trimester…I have yet to get excited about this pregnancy. I can’t talk about the baby. I can’t think about the baby. I can’t look at baby clothes or nursery decor. I don’t dare imagine what he or she might look like.
I am scared. Not nervous, not anxious. Scared. This is hard. I can’t take it. I can’t handle it. Something’s not right. I can’t do it again. I won’t do it again. I’ll lose it for real. I’ll shrink up inside myself. I’ll crumble. I’ll never paint or draw again. I’ll stop writing. I’ll stop talking. I’ll stop eating.
I know it’s not right–and I’ve been pushed to pray harder than I’ve ever prayed before, not just for the health and well-being of my baby, but for my faith to strengthen–big time. I pray “Please, God, please, make me strong enough for high possibility of incoming disaster.”
I don’t know if God necessarily likes that prayer; I’m can’t ask Him to let me lean on myself what with all my obvious weaknesses. I try to preserve my mental stability by expecting the worst. I say that I trust God but truthfully over the past few weeks it’s been harder and harder to really let Him take care of things.
God tells me to chillax; and I counter with “But I feel like my heart is pounding. Don’t you feel that, God? And I can’t breathe. Like really. can’t. breathe. I might be having an actual heart attack. You would tell me if I was having one, wouldn’t you, God? I’ll trust you after I throw up this here meal. I don’t have a giant baby pooch. Why don’t I have a pooch? Shouldn’t I have one? What if the baby just disappeared? My lips are chapped and I’m severely dehydrated, probably on account of the chest pains. My blood’s not circulating. The baby has no blood. God. God? My foot’s asleep.”
And my brain is exhausting me and I can’t breathe.
Back to TWD’s Beth: “Being afraid is easier,” she says in one of the episodes–which is so true. To expect the worst; to always be on the lookout for impending doom, to always run, and to close yourself off and shut yourself down–it’s easier.
I don’t live in a post-apocalyptic world but I’ve experienced pain and sadness and suffering. I sometimes wish I could be a stone-cold robot with the ability to shoulder any loss with calmness and ease…but calmness doesn’t always signal peace. And I’m not an unfeeling machine. I’m just a kid who cries when her pretty new sweater gets stained, who wants to live on a farm with a happy family in the sunshine. God gave me feelings for a reason and Jesus died for me so that I can have hope, not just in the next life but in this life too.
To hope, though–for good, in a world where things so often go wrong–it’s definitely way more difficult. To hope for the best, to see the good in people, to dream and plan and expect miracles…probably requires non-chapped lips and a lung capacity the size of North America.
But it’s my new prayer.