Self-Fulfilling Normal Pregnancy

This morning I had an appointment at the hospital for my second trimester screening. This is the last third of the integrated screening (first trimester blood work and ultrasound + second trimester blood work), and at the time that I made today's appointment it seemed quite far away and impossible that it would ever come to pass. I imagined that if the day ever did arrive and, miraculously, I was still pregnant and in need of the test, that I would have become a different person. That I would've passed through some imaginary force field on my way into the second trimester that made me much wiser, more poised, a vision of maternal serenity.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

Instead, I lost everything in my stomach three times over before finally breaking free from my house and driving myself to the hospital. Doesn't matter that I was just going for a blood test and wouldn't even get any sort of results today. Like Pavlov's dog my body has learned that hospital trip = good time for intestinal overdrive.

Once in the waiting room, I strategized how I might finagle a heartbeat check. The test is done in the maternal-fetal medicine section of the hospital, not in my regular doctor's office, so I knew it would take some smooth talking. Still, I thought, how could I possible leave the place without reassurance? I resolved to get it.

But a funny thing happened once I got called back and sat down in the chair. As the nurse started chatting with me, her making small talk about lighter traffic and me lamenting that my ID stickers now listed "33" as my age, I felt like a normal patient. Like just another pregnant girl who would come the nurse's way today for a routine test that would probably come out okay. And I realized that I wanted to be her – just another pregnant girl. I didn't want to be the neurotic patient the nurse had this morning who tried to get her to do a test she wasn't scheduled for. I didn't want drama, I wanted normal. And I realized that if I chose normal and calm it just might make me feel...normal and calm.

So, even though the nurse was super friendly and I quickly assessed that I almost certainly could have talked my way into a doppler heartbeat check from her, when the blood was drawn and the band-aid on, I stood up, thanked her, walked out of the hospital, got into my car and went on with my day.

It felt good.

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.