be safe, my son

Maybe this is a normal part of the end of pregnancy, or maybe it's just my neurotic side rearing its head again, but all of a sudden this week, I have been having moments of anxiety about the baby. Nothing is wrong with him. He is kicking as much as ever. His heart is beating within the normal range. And aside from a wierd pain in my lower left side that hit me in the car for a few minutes Tuesday, nothing is wrong with me. Nonetheless, I am having panicky "what if" feelings that I hesitate to even put in writing. Thoughts like, what if he dies?

Maybe this is coming on the heels of other people's horribly sad news. First my friend Charles mentioned on the phone Monday that a woman we knew in high school — (this weekend was our 20-year reunion, but I wasn't able to fly to Portland for it) — had lost her baby recently at eight months of pregnancy. And then I learned that Katy, a woman I know from my infertility discussion board, lost one of her twin girls this week, just days before they were to be delivered by c-section. The other little girl survived, but there is a very real loss, too. I can't imagine what that must be like for her and her husband, coming home to two cribs, two sets of everything, but without both of their babies. Hearing things like this fills me with anxiety as much as sadness. I can't help it. I can't help putting myself in those shoes and wondering — perhaps too vividly — what it would be like.

The thing is, I know I would be devastated if we lost this baby. But what rips me apart inside even more is thinking about how it would affect Steve. He is so, so giddy with joy and excitement at the coming of this baby that I can't even imagine how helpless and torn apart he would feel if we lost him. I imagine him sobbing, breaking down, and I can't bear it. I don't want my husband to have to bear so much pain. He has already had to bear it in his life, losing his sister and his mother. Please, not his child, too.

God damn it. We are NOT going to lose him. He is a healthy baby, and he has a healthy mama. Why do I get so wrapped up in the sadness of something that has not happened and is not likely to happen? Other people have actually faced real pain, the kind I have never had to endure, but can I just be happy? No. I have to conjure up imaginary pain.

Last night, it hit me that praying about this might help. I think I'm pretty attentive to my spiritual life, but I am not the kind of person whose first impulse in the face of stressful situations is to pray, at least not in the traditional sense. "Let go and let God" does not come naturally to me. Pure faith is not one of my gifts or graces. I'm always struggling and questioning. But last night, I knew that I needed desperately to get loose of this grip that's been holding me, and I knew that I had to give it up to God — somehow. Steve and I were lying on our bed, reading, getting ready to go to sleep, and I told him this. So we did what we do when we pray together out loud, which was to start the "please and thank you" prayer. When we say this prayer, things tend to come spilling out.

God, please keep our baby safe.
Thank you for this baby, this miracle.
Please give me peace of mind.
Please let the next four weeks go smoothly.
Please be with Katy and Steve in their grief.
Please be with Julia, too, and everyone who has lost a baby or a loved one.
Thank you for keeping this baby healthy for the past eight months.
Thank you for our love and our happy marriage.
Please bring Emilie peace in the face of her anxiety.
Please help me to be less neurotic.
Thank you for all the good things we have ...
Please help it to be less hot tomorrow.
Thank you for our friends.
Please give strength to those who are suffering.
Please be with Carrie as she waits to see if her donor egg transfers will stick.
Thank you for Steve and how hard he works.
Thank you for Emilie and how loving she is.
Please help me to be a good mother.
Please help me to be a good father.

The pleases and thank-yous drifted into silence, and after a while, I opened my eyes and looked over at Steve. He was still lying there, his hands on my belly, his eyes closed. My heart lurched again. He is so full of love, it is unbelievable.