How I Learned To Stop Worrying and...oh, who am I kidding?

Based on your responses, I've decided to write somethig combining the first and fourth options, with a promise (such as it is) to write about going to the mikvah after I actually go (tomorrow). Fair enough? I should warn you, though, that those of you who are infertile may not want to read this post because of all of my stupid pregnancy complaints, and those of who you are pregnant may not want to read this post because of the very scary worries. So, really, nobody's going to read the post, but I'll write it anyway.

---

Pregnancy is full of things to occupy your mind. That's putting it mildly...it's more like full of things for you to completely obsess over every minute of every day, and if you want to preserve even one shred of your sanity, you need to learn to let go of your worries and smile (as best you can) through your pains. I'm never going to completely stop worrying, but I can usually get myself to stop complaining. So what follows is a short list of my little complaints, and the corresponding pep talks:

Can't sleep at night? Be grateful you're not working anymore, and can nap at any time of day if you so desire.

Peeing every hour on the dot, including just when you've fallen asleep? That's because you have a healthy little baby perched head-down on your bladder. What more could you want? Be happy that you aren't on hospital bedrest and forced to pee into a bedpan.

Achy back? Well, what about your friend SL, who suffered tremendously from back pain even before her first pregnancy? Shortly after giving birth, it got so much worse that she was given strict instructions not to get pregnant again. Ever. Now, a few years later, they are expecting twins...via a gestational surrogate. This is trly wonderful...but she will never be pregnant again, and that is a real loss with real grief. I just need a warm compress and maybe a massage.

Swollen ankles? It's not preeclampsia. We just proved that. Wear the big comfy shoes when you have to stad, and prop up your legs the rest of the time. Whiny brat.

But twins are going to be so much work! Oh, suck it. You're fulfilling the dream of (almost) every infertile couple: an uncomplicated twin pregnancy. Two for the price (quite literally) of one. No need to go through any treatments ever again just to avoid having an only child.

Can't go everywhere and do everything you used to do? Could be worse. Remember that bit about hospital bedrest? That's not you. So, again: suck it.

(I would make a great drill sergeant, wouldn't I? Okay, not so much.)

And of course, with any pregnancy-related complaint, I try to remind myself how much worse I would feel if I were not pregnant. The aches in my back or the heavy feeling in my swollen feet or even the constant bruise-like aching in my sides is absolutely nothing in comparison to the emotional anguish of finding out that my ovaries, once again, did not respond to a course of Clomid. That's just Clomid, people! I can't even fathom how I would have reacted if our first Follistim IUI had failed, let alone a full-blown IVF cycle. I really don't know how so many of you do it, and then get back up to do it again.

---

As for the worries...well, there's the usual set of legitimate worries: What if I can't make enough breastmilk? What if I can, but my kids won't latch? What if one of them develops pneumonia when s/he's two weeks old? And so on. But then there's the set of worries that everyone brushes off with, "Oh, that almost never happens!" Except...it does. And I know it does. I've had the privilege, as it were, of knowing some of Those People firsthand.

Twenty-eight weeks is a big milestone. Thirty is another, and then every week thereafter. I'm just about twenty-four hours away from being considered 36 weeks pregnant...and in twin terms, that's pretty good. Hell, even in singleton terms it's nothing to sneeze at. By thirty-six weeks, the lungs are developed and have plenty of surfactant (though a little more couldn't hurt). The main benefits (to the babies) of continued gestation over the next few weeks will be some weight gain and an improvement in sucking reflexes. So, in (almost) everyone's book, nothing bad can happen now.

Perhaps they haven't heard of stillbirth.

It's not as rare as you think. The stillbirth rate in the United States is about 1 in every 115 deliveries after 24 weeks gestation. Granted, we are well past 24 weeks at this point, but there's no magical cutoff. Babies die during labor. Babies also, often without warning, die near term. Stillbirth seemed like one of those "it doesn't happen to anyone you know" things, until it did.

In the fall of 2005, we were at a Shabbat meal with a lovely couple from our synagogue. She was largely, radiantly pregnant. About thirty-eight weeks along, if I recall correctly. I remember being somewhat uncomfortable at that meal, even though we barely discussed her pregnancy, because we were finally coming to terms with our need to find an RE and start using some real fertility drugs (instead of just metformin). I had no way of knowing then that this couple had been through their share of fertility treatments to get to the point of radiant waddling (though maybe I should have figured it out).

Two weeks later, we were hosting another family for Shabbat dinner in our home. Two parents and three children ranging in age from eight to seventeen. I can't recall exactly how it came up, but over the course of the meal one of the parents told us that the child of this radiant, glowing couple had been stillborn. That was enough to numb me for a moment, but then the father proceeded to explain to his youngest child just what that meant. "It's when the baby was growing okay inside the mommy, but then something happens and the baby is dead when it comes out." I don't think he said much more than that, but in my head the explanation took half an hour at least. The words echoed all through the rest of dinner, and dessert, and our polite lingering chatter. And as we cleared the table. And as I got ready for bed. And as I cried myself to sleep, because...that's a pain I never want to experience.

I don't think I've spoken to either of the bereaved parents since. We hadn't really met them before the lunch we shared, and our community is large enough that they probably don't even notice our not-talking to them. I have no idea how they get through any day without tossing back a full bottle of painkillers and a vodka chaser. I don't know how they can still smile at young children who carelessly bump into their legs while running through the Kiddush after services every Shabbat morning...or how it is that they manage to come to services at all. I would be angry at God beyond belief. I am angry at God, on their behalf. And every time I see this woman's face, two thoughts run through my mind: "May you always find comfort and strength," and, "Please, spare me her sorrow, for that is a test I would not survive.

---

I wanted to end the post there, but I just came across more disturbing news. A woman on a message board I frequent went into labor about a week ago, at term. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. About a day later, he stopped breathing. He was resusitated, but in the interim suffered so much permanent damage that he eventually died a couple of days ago. Again, I wish the mother comfort and strength...and again, I cannot fathom how I would deal, nor do I ever want to find out.

The fear never ends.