high-risk

That's officially what they're now calling my pregnancy with you. Your mommy is not even slightly good at this. I don't have a way of filtering it through my brain so that this last week makes sense to me in any way. All I keep thinking was that last week everything was fine, and even though that's likely not true, at least I didn't know what was going on. Didn't know how scared I could be for you, how angry and betrayed I could feel by my own body. Isn't the miracle of pregnancy and birth the way your body adapts in order to do everything possible to keep your baby safe? Mine isn't doing that. I hate how irrational that makes me feel - how it makes me feel like I'm not being a good mother to you, even though in my head I know I can't control this, and if I could, I would. How can my body be the safest and scariest place for you?

I used to sleep when you moved, and now I can't. Now I want to feel every last movement, every time you roll or kick or get the hiccups because it tells me you're okay and that's all I want. I want you to be okay and I want someone to tell me how to get you there. I want numbers and statistics and a chart that tells me that we are taking very small risks, and that we are doing the right thing. Why don't those things exist? Part of me wants to run to the hospital as fast as I can and tell them they have to get you out, they have to get you into my arms because that would feel safe. But that may not happen. They may get you out only to put you into a little incubator where I can't touch you. Part of me wants to leave you in there, to try and trust that my body will protect you from itself, as it's seeming to do so far.

I know right now, that if you were born, you wouldn't die. I know that, thankfully, the odds are very much in your favor. But there's a reason that the vast majority of pregnancies go as long as they do. How do you weigh all the scary words and thoughts against each other? How much weight do you assign a phrase like "respiratory difficulty" when it's sitting next to "possible stillbirth"? I understand that the latter of the two is the scariest of all, but if it's chances are far, far smaller than the chances of the former, then what? "Possible future developmental issues". If I run for the hospital and beg them to take you out now, am I going to be sitting with you one day trying to teach you to read and know you're struggling more than you'd need to because I couldn't wait? That I chose something for you that made your life more difficult because those words, "possible stillbirth" rang in my head until they were all I could hear? How do I choose for you? I don't want to make decisions based on fear.

There's a movie about two men stuck out in the woods. They get very very lost, and they know it's going to be a long time until somebody comes for them. They need to survive by themselves and make hard decisions that they never thought they'd have to make, with nobody to tell them if they're saving or endangering themselves with every move they make. The older man looks to the younger and says, "Do you know why people die in the wild? Do you know what actually kills them off? It's not bears, or hypothermia, or any of that. Fear. They die of fright." When we get scared we make poor decisions. The men are afraid of the possibility of a bear so they don't go into a cave to sleep, where they could be warm and protected from the wind and rain.

Funnily enough, I also read a statistic once that I've always thought was fascinating. In situations like the one in the movie, where basic survival skills are necessary to keep people alive there is an age group that fares far better than any other. Children under 10. If a child is dropped alone into the Amazon for 5 days, it will have a higher chance of survival than if a grown adult male. Reason? They do not over-think. When they are hungry they eat, and do not worry about being poisoned. When they are thirsty they drink, and do not understand quite yet the parasites and sickness that can live in water. When they are tired, they find a small closed space to sleep in and keep themselves warm, instead of worrying about the terror of invading a home that belongs to a bigger, scarier animal.

How do I do this for you? How do I try to filter out my fear at a very real danger to you, and make a responsible, calm, decision? How do you think and trust like a little child in a world of adult fear and danger? Right now, with the information we have, we believe we're doing the right thing for you. Your risk of stillbirth (which has become the scariest word to me) is small. It's not small enough, but it's not a monster looming at the door quite yet. Maybe just down the street a ways. The longer you stay, the closer it gets, and the doctor needs us to decide how close we want to allow that monster to come to you before we rush you away. I've already seen the judgment in people's eyes when they hear this. Some people think that you just run. That I'm crazy to let you stay where you are. That I would, in even the smallest possible way, risk your life in order to spare you from things that are not life threatening seems stupid to them.

Your dad loves to climb mountains. I can't wait until you can go with him, but do you know what? Every single time he goes, I'm a little bit afraid. If your dad would stay in the house, he would be more safe than if he climbed a mountain. Once, last year, he climbed a mountain ridge all by himself in a wind storm. Your dad likes to be a little bit dangerous. Not a lot, but just a little bit. Someone I know had a friend that went hiking alone on the same mountains your dad climbs here, and that friend fell and died. This girl looked at me like I was the most idiotic person alive when I told her that I "let" your dad hike by himself. Why would I risk it? Because I don't just want your dad not to die, I love him, and I want him to live the life that he loves. Because making him sit at home would kill something he loves, and that would also be a death. Because I know that the risk of him dying on a mountain are probably much smaller than the risk to him every time he gets in the car and drives somewhere, but because we have to drive we allow that risk. Because heart disease kills more men who sit in their safe houses and don't exercise than falling off of mountains does. One seems so much scarier than the other, but really, it's not so bad. Yes, it's an "unnecessary risk", but not when you know your dad. He has to climb mountains. It's who he is. It's not about letting him do anything, it's about loving him. I've been scared before. I'll be scared again, but I'll do it because I want that for him.

I'm scared for you, sweet little baby. I want you to have the most wonderful life. When I imagine the moment you come into the world, I want them to place you in our arms - not to whisk you away to a cold, plastic, box. I'm trying as hard as I can to make good decisions for you. I know you're going to be okay, somehow. Every day I'm a little less afraid. And you're being such a good baby. They were so impressed with you in the hospital. Your little heart is working so well, and you're moving around all the time - trying to show us all how healthy you are. It's like you're saying, "see! I'm okay! I nearly kicked out one of your ribs just then, see how strong I am?" I never thought that anything could feel as wonderful as the way feeling you move does this week. And it's like you know. You've moved more in the last few days than you ever have, with more regularity. Every single time I put my hand on my tummy, within a minute or so you give me a little tap.

I'm going to try and do for you, the very best thing that I can. I'm going to try and trust that Jesus loves you more than me, and wants you safe in my arms even more than I do. I'm not going to freak out and decide things for your life out of fear. Your daddy and I are going to pray a lot, and we're going to trust that Jesus can put his hands around you and protect you from my very angry liver until we come to a time that's more reasonable to have you come to meet us. In a small way, I'm happy that I don't have to wait as long as I thought I did. You have no idea how excited we are to meet you, how much we want to hold you, and kiss your already-chubby little cheeks. They told me at the hospital that you already have a full head of fuzzy hair. For some unknown reason, this makes me so excited. They even showed it to me on the ultrasound, these sweet little wisps coming off the back of your head. Cutest thing I've ever seen.

I'm going to try and relax for you, and make your last little while in there as comfortable as possible. We'll see you soon, sweetheart. Pretty soon this will all be over and you'll be curled on the couch with me and your dad watching football. I love you and I'm counting down the days until then.

Love, mommy.