“The Pregnant Woman” – A Survival Guide

“The Pregnant Woman” – A Survival Guide

To a vast majority of the average population, pregnant women are either terrifying, mysterious, or adorable creatures.  In light of this, it’s no wonder you all have so much trouble understanding just how to act when you encounter one in the wild.  Here are a few tips on how to survive and thrive when you inevitably encounter what’s known as “The Pregnant Woman.”

1 – Don’t call her huge.  She probably already feels rather large, but on the off chance she’s having a good day, don’t go ruining it by expressing your surprise at how gigantic she has become since you saw her last.  I know you’ll have the best of intentions – it is the natural course of pregnancy after all.  However, it’s best to stay away from adjectives also commonly used to describe houses, boats, and whales.

2 – The Pregnant Woman is probably already feeling a lot of pressure to eat all the right things, only the right things, not too many of the right things, and not too few of the right things.  Therefore, it is probably not helpful to give her pointers on her diet. This is true whether it’s an encouragement to splurge (example: “isn’t this the time in your life when you can guiltlessly go ham?”), or an admonishment for a poor choice (example: “does the baby really need that?”).

3 – This may sound hypocritical, but The Pregnant Woman can say that she has pregnancy brain.  She can self-depreciatingly find humor in forgetting or misplacing things.  But when you tell The Pregnant Woman that she has pregnancy brain after she misplaces her keys or forgets what she was about to say – all she hears is “You’re off your rocker!  Pregnancy has made you literally insane! Boy, isn’t it great to be so smart, hooray for me!”  Remember that we’re all forgetful at times, pregnant women have a lot on their plates, and when you don’t have anything nice to say, there is dignity in silence. 

A list of other things you probably shouldn’t say if you want a pain-free encounter with The Pregnant Woman (unless your opinion and advice has been solicited – in which case proceed with caution!!):

“Oh, you’re going back to work/staying home after you have the baby?  That’s just going to make you miserable.”

“You do know that most of the weight you gain while you’re pregnant is fat, right? That’s why you don’t lose it all when you give birth.”

"Oh, your back hurts/feet are swollen/legs cramp/head aches?  You must be doing pregnancy wrong."

"How much weight have you gained?"

“You can too lift heavy things/survive a whole day without a nap/jog a marathon/etc..”

“Look at you - you must be due in the next few weeks, right?!” or, along the same lines, “Look at you - you must be having twins!!”

"Come on, it's just a cold."

 “Oh, I gave birth once.  Want to hear all the worst parts?  Pull up a chair, this will take a while.”

And remember, The Pregnant Woman may look and act a bit strange, but underneath her gigantic belly, she’s a person just like you.  When in doubt, be kind and supportive - it's hard work growing a slightly parasitic (albeit adorable and blessed) human inside her body.  

Oh, and one last thing, don’t forget to rub her belly a lot – especially if you're a stranger - she’ll love it.  It’ll make her feel like an animal at a petting zoo! (*Cough* Sarcasm *Cough*)

Spiderwebs

She sat across my counter and I began the routine.  Something about her hair or her voice was familiar – I’d checked her in before.

This fact is not significant.  Between working in the biggest emergency room in the area and sometimes helping out at one of the most popular urgent care centers, I begin to recognize faces.  Sometimes while out grocery shopping or gassing up, I’ll see a face and scramble for their name while trying to recall if I know them from church or theater or wilderness trips… only to realize they were a patient last week or last month or several times over the last few years.

I checked her in for shortness of breath. She was sitting in a wheelchair, which meant I needed to go all the way around our desks so that I could wristband her.  As I leaned over her, I finally smelled the thick fog of cigarette smoke that hung over her.

Instantly, my mind is drawn away from where I am and what I’m doing.  Though I wheel this woman to the waiting room, get her settled, and explain the next steps to her, I don’t remember doing any of it.

Instead I’m thinking of you.

You were so excited.  Or at least, I thought you were.

We were due two weeks apart, each of us expecting our first, and somehow this forged in us a stronger bond than the one we shared before.  It did for me anyways.  I found myself looking for you when at work, we shared secret and expectant smiles as we treasured our separate joys together.

Yes, we are vastly different people.  We always have been.  I knew this from the start.

But isn’t everyone different, after all?  The ties that draw people together are varying and mysterious, and rarely based on common ground alone.

You got your photos first – I was a little bit jealous, in a good-natured way.  You brought them to me and glowed over the little life that was beginning.  And I glowed with you.

That was what I knew before: you were excited, glowing, and tied to me with an invisible string.

Did you know that quantitatively, spider silk is five times stronger than steel?  It's near in strength to Kevlar. 

But those facts don’t really change the simple truth that a person can blunder into a spider’s web and ruin it without expending any effort at all.

All it takes is a little carelessness.

Now I know more. I know you didn’t slow down your smoking habit at all – in fact for whatever reason, you upped your dose to a pack and a half a day instead of just a pack a day ("just a pack a day?").

You didn’t manage your diabetes either.  I understand that this disease is difficult to control, but lots of people do it.  And you didn’t even try, stating that pregnancy is the time you’re allowed to eat as much as you want whenever you want.  And by doing this, you let your disease run rampant on your body and everything inside you.

And all I can feel is angry.

Because you were excited.

Weren’t you excited?

Why didn’t you try harder?

Why didn’t you try at all?

You showed me pictures, you had prenatal care, even if somehow you had gone your whole life without knowing how dangerous you were acting – they told you then.

I know they told you.

I know you knew.

And I’m angry.

A mutual acquaintance was talking about this whole thing while you weren’t around.  Was she talking to me? I don’t remember, it’s hard to say.  Gossip is just as rampant in the ER as the television shows would have you believe.  Maybe worse.

She said in a low voice that it was just as well.  That of all the people she knew, you were probably the least equipped to have a child.  That you were still trying to determine between three baby-daddy’s and let’s be honest, what kind of a life would that baby have had?

I’m not a violent person.  I’m not an angry person, not usually. 

But I had to walk away then.

Because all I could feel was angry – so very angry at her for saying this, at you, at everything.

And.

            And I am so ashamed of myself.

So ashamed.

Because I don’t know you.  Not really.  I don’t know the first thing about how you’re feeling.

Maybe you recognize that you were careless and threw away a life – and maybe you regret this.

Maybe you’re relieved.

Maybe you actually got an abortion.  Maybe you figured that if everyone is agreeing behind your back that it’s better this way, maybe they’re right.

Maybe you feel guilt or shame.

Maybe you never cared as much as you seemed to.

I’m ashamed of the hardness of my heart, of my unforgiveness.  I’m ashamed of the way I’m assuming so much about the situation. And of all my anger.  There’s a reason God hates anger so much.  

The ambiguous, uncertain, and unknown have never been my forte. I’ve always thrived on black and white – this is anything but that. But we both know that the last thing you need from your Christian friend is judgment and anger, even if I never speak any of it aloud to you or to anyone.

When I saw you last, you smiled at me – a big, normal, happy smile.  We never spoke about the miscarriage, we haven’t spoken since.  I smiled back, but did you feel my hesitation?  As greatly as I feel that you’ve failed, I feel my own failure.

But I don’t know how to be.  I pray for you, which seems smaller than I know it is. We don’t talk anymore though.  I don’t know if you even want to talk, as my little life continues to grow and yours was lost.  I don’t know how to do right by you. Maybe I’ll learn, given time.  Maybe we’ll ease back into old conversations. Maybe we’ll both pretend to forget or somehow find a way to talk about it.

Or, maybe the invisible strings connecting us to others are just as intangible and unpredictable as the ways they are severed.

Guilty Bystander

From the first time I started that job, you made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  Discernment has been my gift and my curse, but back then I didn’t trust my instincts.  They hadn’t been tested and proven as they are now.

I found your little notes – the ones that seemed too warm, too friendly.

But I didn’t say anything.  Surely the sin was my own rapid imagination – nothing more.

Months wore on, and I watched you sneak off into the back warehouse with her.  More than once. And you two would stay in there for much longer than her allotted lunch break.

I kept quiet still.

You tried to be friendly with me after these afternoon rendezvous – as if you could convince me by sheer cheeriness that nothing was amiss.  I think you noticed how I shrunk from you over time, how your warmth only made me colder.

Her hair was longer than your wife’s, darker.  Perhaps she was a bit thinner, I never really noticed.  I always found her annoying – the way she would butt into conversations she didn’t belong in.

If only conversations were the extent of her intrusion.

You wife was not just my boss, she was my friend.  She gave me my first job, I worked under her as her business grew from a two-room operation to four rooms, then six, then extended across multiple locations.

And maybe that’s why it was so hard. I wanted to say something. I needed to say something. As time went on and you tested the boundaries with this co-worker of mine, I felt complicit. I felt dirty by association and not saying anything felt like a betrayal.

But you just can’t do that. You can’t just waltz up to your boss and accuse her husband of cheating. I mean, maybe you can. Maybe someone somewhere out there did it and it didn’t blow up in their face. 

But honestly, how was that going to end well for anyone? You made sure it wouldn’t end well the moment you decided to look. And touch. And whatever else.

So instead I quit. I made up some excuse about the drive being too far and after years of happy employment, I quit.

The look in her eyes when I told her I couldn’t be convinced to stay - I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. She didn’t just look like she was going to cry, she looked so tired and worn out, as if I was placing the final straw that would break her back.

I wondered then if she knew. 

A few months later you left her to be with this dark-haired former co-worker of mine. And she rebuilt her life without you.

But it still nags at me that you did all that, it bothers me that you put me in that impossible situation. 

Sin affects so much more than just those immediately involved. It destroys irrevocably and it plants doubt and regret that can last a lifetime.

But then again, I suppose that’s why we’re not supposed to do it in the first place.

DOI 09252019 MVA RGDMH1

I heard the code green come over the overhead pagers while I sipped soup in the cafeteria, but I resisted the urge to cut my dinner break short to go assist.

Back from lunch and Bianca’s annoyed.

“Well they don’t have a name and all they gave me is the year he was born, and you know how frustrating that is, and then they’re the ones who get mad at me for not having it already so you know what? I decided I’m not dealing with that.  So now he’s a DOE.  Maybe they’ll think twice about being so unhelpful next time.”

If it’s possible to sigh inwardly to one’s self, I did then. 

“Okay,” I told her, “I’ll take care of it.”

I gathered the basic information - he was in a motor vehicle accident, sitting restrained in the passenger side, life flight brought him in straight from the scene. With that, I took off with my clipboard to his room. 

The stretcher was gone - he’d been in a high speed car crash so my best guess? He’s in CT or MRI. They’re looking for injuries in his head. Then he’ll go to X-ray. 

One glance around his room reveals a single black sock on the floor, along with drips and smears of blood.

I spy what I’m looking for on the floor by the trash can overflowing with discarded trauma gowns. 

The patient’s clothes.

I set my clipboard down and glove up. The clothes had been shredded by trauma shears, but the pockets were intact. Still, no luck - no wallet. 

All I have is the year. 1998. He’s my sister’s age. As soon as the thought crosses my mind I remind myself not to think that. Why do I always draw stronger associations with patients than I need to?

As I leave his room, they’re wheeling him back in. He’s lean, young, sporty. His hair is light and his head is lying flat against the stretcher, he’s non-responsive but at least he’s not intubated. Breathing on your own is a big deal in trauma patients. 

He seems familiar in a distant and hard to place way, like an actor you can’t place or a childhood friend who’s changed just a little too much. I know I don’t know him, but I have a hard time pulling my eyes off him regardless. 

When I get back to my desk out front, I’m not there for two minutes before a young man with a tall frame in an ill-fitting bright blue hoodie approaches my desk. His eyes are worried. I already know, but I ask anyways and he says he’s here to see his friend who was in a car accident. He was in the car behind, he explains, and I understand the look in his eyes.

I ask him for the name and date of birth and all of a sudden, our young man has a name. I redirect the friend to the waiting room, but not before asking if family is coming.

“I been trying to find his mom’s number,” he says, “I’ll keep trying.”

Luckily, armed with his name and DOB, I find that his information is in the system and I set about doing the medical record number combine.

When it’s finished, we have phone numbers for his parents. I jot their names and numbers on a sticky note and head to the nurse’s station. 

There is relief in knowing that soon his parents will know what’s been going on with their child. 

Becky is preoccupied, but I stand across the desk from her until she acknowledges me.

“I have the numbers for the parents if you’d like them.”

“Thanks, I’m all set.”

I clear my throat. “I finished the MRN combine and sent it to IT but it won’t go through for a little while and till then, you won’t have the right numbers. I can just leave this with you if you’d like?”

Her gaze, when it returns to me, is cold. “Tell you what, when I need something, that’s when I’ll come find you.”

I walk away angry. I know she’s busy, she’s probably overwhelmed. But they don’t even know he’s here. Police didn’t know his name, the driver of the vehicle was unconscious at the scene, and this sticky note is his only lifeline to the outside world - to the parents who don’t even know that anything has happened. 

I get that his nurse is busy. 

But this is his mother we’re talking about.

So when I get back to the waiting room, I go to his friend and ask him if he found the number for the mom. When he says he hasn’t yet, I pass along the sticky note.

I’m not aloud to do that, per hospital policy.  The doctor and nursing staff have to be the first call. It’s kind of a big deal, but I pretend to forget this.

She’s his mother. 

Time wears on, the parents are coming from two hours away and he remains unresponsive. He remains unresponsive for so long I begin to really worry.

Meanwhile, half of his basketball team members show up – so many that I have to ask them to relocate to the cafeteria while they wait.

Were they at a game? Surely it’s too early for that?

Some questions remain unanswered.

Like the question of what happened, how it happened.

He wasn’t even the driver, poor kid. Was his friend drinking? Smoking? High on Marijuana or something else? 

And still he doesn’t wake up.

I’ve never yearned for access to clinical information more than I do now – to know the results of his CT scan. Is his brain damaged? Bleeding? When will he wake up? Will he wake up at all?

Not ten minutes later, he wakes up. I was out back at the time, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The whole department knew pretty quickly. Honestly though, I’ve never been happier to hear someone scream and curse.

As the evening wears on and they update the board, I see that he has fractures, contusions, and lacerations, but I don’t see much in the way of mental deficits. It will be a long road, but it’s one he’s lucky to  have the chance to take.

When his family shows up, it’s nearly 11pm, time for me to go home. I offer to take them back, and when I pull aside the curtain in his dimly lit room, he raises his head enough to see his mom and dad coming.

He raises a feeble thumbs up as they go to him, and I close the curtain to give them what privacy I can.

Some may see this and rail on the stupidity and recklessness of young drivers.  Maybe they’re right. Some may see a ruined basket season. This is not inaccurate. Some may see a registration girl being over-dramatic. He was fine, after all. 

Sort of.

But after hours of investing in this chapter of his story, all I can see in that feeble thumbs up is a happy ending.

And when I go to my bed tonight, I’ll pray for him and his recovery. And I won’t have a bit of trouble falling asleep.

Oblivious

James Jamison

I wish I could bring you in from the rain, but you stand there in the cold and shiver feverishly. I’m sorry I lost the right to care about you. Just so you know, I still do.

Melody Palm

You keep calling me a saint and it makes me worry. I worry that it will never really click with you - the reason for the difference you see in me. It’s not because I’m good or better, it’s because of the One who is in me. I hope I’ve told you this enough, I hope I’ve found the right ways. I hope you find Him. I hope.

Henry

You told me yesterday that you’re so frustrated by this maze, so tired of it, you’re ready to burn it down. And if you can’t escape the flames? So be it. I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.  I wish I could believe myself when I try to tell you I know you’ll find a way out.

Alice Elyce 

You cried the other night, amid the flashing lights and the oblivious emergencies. I wanted to wrap my arms around you and hold you until the pain and the worry had washed away with your makeup, but I did not. I don’t know how to love you right, I wish I was better at this. Perhaps time will be kind enough to let me try again.

My heart

Hello friend,

You sure are taking your time, aren’t you? It’s not a big deal, we’re excited but we can wait.  You’re worth it.

In the meantime, there are some things you should know. You have the best daddy. He’s so funny and smart, strong enough for all of us, with the most contagious laugh. You’re pretty lucky. We both are.  

You’re going to live in the most beautiful place - I can’t wait to show you the ocean, these mountains, my rivers. I’ll do my best to teach you how to conquer them and love them, we’re going to love this world together.

I’m not sure who I’d be without Christ. This life isn’t always easy, but the best thing I can give you is the peace of knowing Him. And I promise you, I will do my best to give you this, too. Somehow, He already loves you more than I do.

Take the time you need. We’ll be here.

With all my heart,

Danielle