Something So Right

It's been a few weeks. I turned 33, the spotting finally, mercifully stopped, my in-laws were in town and we went to my husband's family reunion in upstate New York together (note to self: next time you're pregnant, if there is a next time, don't go to the middle of nowhere at the end of the first trimester. Hungry – no, starving – every hour is not a good state to be when the only food to be found is greasy, made of refined flour or artificial meat products). I've been living my life, trying to go about my business and keep on top of the worry. I'd say I've done an adequate, if not respectable job.

I know I sound ridiculous – I even bore myself – still sounding alarms when I've finally crossed into the second trimester and nothing about this pregnancy, not even the spotting, has concerned my doctors (or anyone else). But there's a reason for the term "battle scars." A war – no matter if it's fought on a battlefield or in a doctor's office – doesn't simply disappear, even if the ultimate result is victory. You remember how it felt to fight so hard, all the sacrifices that were made along the way. All the things you lost. And freedom, the more you taste it, becomes that much more difficult to imagine giving up again. You think, What if I had to fight that war again?

I remember this one time, a few years ago, I was shopping with a good friend of mine at a thrift store when a shady looking man started edging toward us. He was making a strange gesture so I glanced down and saw that he was, quite unfortunately, flashing us. Seeing a penis in a public store seemed so out of place it took me more than a second to realize what it was. Naturally horror was my first and most intense emotion, but there was little time to be horrified. I suppose at some instinctive level I felt it was important to get him to back away rather than letting him intimidate us. "No!" I said to him, wagging my finger. "Stop – you stop that right now. Leave us alone." He immediately recoiled and left the store. My friend applauded my bravery. I just sprang into action, she said, where she would've freaked and ran. I told her I wasn't willing to forfeit the bargains I'd found for some pervert. Later, once it stopped being scary, we laughed so hard about it that tears ran down our faces.

You see, I'm good in a crisis. And I'd gotten really good at crisis management over the past couple of years. What I'm having a hard time figuring out is how to turn off all that adrenaline and just enjoy the fruits of my struggle, without questioning what can go wrong and when. As Paul Simon sang so true, I can't get used to something so right. But I'm trying, and I'm learning even though it's slow (the nurse who has seen me three times now for extra doppler heartbeat listens can attest to that). It's new territory that I couldn't be more grateful to be exploring.