Blood on the Sheets, Mercy at the Door

Still from Furiosa: A Mad Max Story, collider.com

On Monday morning, I woke up to blood on the sheets. Thank God, I whispered to myself. Maybe I could finally be done.

The first month of pregnancy, the last four weeks, have been brutal in a way I could not have imagined.

I enjoy scary movies, but the one kind of horror I cannot watch is getting trapped in a body that's not yours. Like when you watch a character's beloved mother turn into a slavering zombie. Or worst of all, that stupid Johnny Depp movie about the guy who gets kidnapped and sewn up into a walrus costume with his own shin bone for tusks. I haven't even SEEN that movie, I only read the Wikipedia summary, but just the idea of being trapped, silently bleeding, silently crying, stuffed into a blubberous body that's not yours, is true horror to me.

Up until these last four weeks, I really thought I'd come to an accord with this body of mine, a meatsuit that I sometimes feel sewn into and trapped in. We could eat when we wanted and needed to, most of the time. We could shamelessly cry and blush and pontificate and laugh. And after years of partnership, we could hike and run and kayak without pain.

Then pregnancy hit me. And fatigue hit me. And nausea hit me. And I stopped eating. And I stayed in bed 18 hours a day. And then the depression hit me. Like hauling a sack of sand on my back everywhere I went.

And the most frightening, "trapped in this body" sensation was that none of my usual coping methods seemed to work. The ways I can get myself to eat, the ways I can endure discomfort: nada zilch nothing. Still heavy. Still unhappy. My optimistic problem-solving brain was shot.

So from this place, when I woke up to blood on the sheets, I said thank god. Maybe this nightmare of discomfort and hopelessness could be over.

When I first decided to get pregnant, one of my desires was to share what other women had experienced. I sit in women's circles and they talk about pregnancy and babies and all that they endured, and I always know I'm just a breath apart from them. I can listen, but I can't feel it. I wanted to feel. I wanted to know what this extraordinary human experience was like.

Ha! Well, I got that, and even more than I bargained for. I love a good battle story, and I certainly have one of my own to share now.

I love battle stories, and I love the truth. Before I woke up to blood on the sheets, I was longing for an escape chute: googling abortion laws in Utah, scrambling for any action to get me out of this nightmare. But that was a secret, secret thought. Not a private or a sacred thought, a secret-shame kind. How could I possibly trust myself if I aborted? How could I possibly trust that I actually love my baby? How could my donor trust me if I aborted his baby? Shame-secrets. The kind that spiral. The kind you don't want to say out loud. While everyone around me was over the moon excited for me, beyond happy, I was over here thinking about aborting. That's shame: like my insides don't match what the outside wants from me.

But I love the truth, so I tried speaking it out, in small steps. I told a co-worker that I was pregnant: her face lit up. I smiled tiredly. "How are you feeling?" she asked. I hesitated and tried the truth on for size. "You know, honestly..." I said, "I kind of wish I could have a trial run. Like, try this out, and then come back and do it again for real in a few months."

My insides don't match what the outside wants from me. There, I've made that plain. Something inside me is out of step with the rest of you. And I waited for shock or disgust. But she didn't do any of those things. She just nodded seriously. "Oh, that makes so much sense to me."

Relief.

I said that none of my coping skills worked, but that's not actually correct. The cognitive reframes, the Buddhism, the stoicism, the problem solving: all those skills didn't work. But I will tell you what did endure, what did come online when I needed it most.

First: twenty years of rewiring my shamed self from my belly up, twenty years of speaking love to myself so that it has become my default private language. Twenty years ago, my private language to myself was berating, and embarrassment, and disconnect: you're so stupid. Everyone thinks you're so stupid. Why are you like this? You're so ugly. You're so strange. You're so broken. Twenty years later, I have loved myself from the belly up, over and over. Every ugly thought, every untrustworthy desire, every fatigued moment and mistake of the tongue: I loved them all. And so now, even as my body sank under the weight of sand, as my mind failed me, I loved myself. Get up, sweetheart, I whispered to myself. There you are. There you go. Lift this apple. Open this drawer. Arms through your shirt, brush through your hair. You're doing so well, my love. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you. So slow. So tired. So gentle with myself.

And second, what came online, what lit up, what was a beacon in the dark when all else failed: the way that others love me. An SOS to my sister and my mom: food quickly appearing in my kitchen, Doordash breakfast sent every morning. Jess, who brought me broth. Christian, carefully watching me eat, making sure I had rice. Kekoa, texting me daily, checking in.

Slowly, slowly, I came back to life. Slowly, slowly, this mud and muck does move, does slide, does carry you downhill.

I think a lot about blessing my baby, baptizing my baby in the church. We had a lot of baptisms over Easter, the week I conceived. I am so moved by the assertion, the acclaimation, this baby is holy, as they are dipped in water and marked with oil. This baby is good. This baby is marked worthy in the eyes of god for no other reason than that they are a baby and to be a human, to be alive is good. I am so moved by the promise the congregation makes to guard and protect each other, but only with the mercy of the universe backing them.

Will you by your prayers and witness help this child to grow into the full stature of Christ?

We will, with God's help.

Deliver them, O Lord, from the way of sin and death.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Bring them to the fullness of your peace and glory.

Lord, hear our prayer.

I woke up on Monday to blood on the sheets, but it looks like, for now, that mercy has found a way forward. I got a blood draw on Wednesday, and my hCG hormone was so high that there's no way I've miscarried. Next week there will be an ultrasound. Delivered, for now, from the way of death. I didn't lose the baby. My people have been showing up in my hour of need. Most crucially of all, I found a new vitamin regimen that has totally 180'd what my body was going through: the nausea and the depression have faded, and I feel my brain coming back online.

I set out on this path with the intent of suffering: with the intent of gathering battle stories, battle scars, and having more truth to tell. It would have been nice if it had all proceeded in the way I'm used to: if I could have just continued in the way I began, easy and familiar. But we're going off the map. Here there be dragons, mean ones, cruel ones. I might even metaphorically call them satanic ones.

I do like scary movies, but I don't like horror movies: I don't like movies where there is no redeeming virtue, where there is no love. I once watched Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. It is a brutal, relentless movie. The only person Furiosa can trust is dismembered by trucks; she loses an arm; she is required to fight and kill and hurt just to stay alive. At the very beginning, Furiosa was born into a green and beautiful land. She is kidnapped, and her mother fails to save her and is crucified. Her mother says to her as she dies, "Find a way to get home."

I couldn’t watch such a brutal movie often, but I am so glad I saw it. From that one parting shot comes all the rest of the movie, and that is all that Furiosa does: every step is only her relentless courage to fulfill her promise to her mother to get home.

We can endure all of this: the pain, the cruelty, the grief, when we know what our homing shot is. When we know the mercy by which we endure. In these stories, virtue blossoms in the desert.

Welcome to my pseudo-journal about the experience of trying to have a baby as a single person. Now that I’ve published my memoir about God and sex, maybe eventually, these notes and jots will become a second book.

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