#33 The Last Bit of It

And edging in on a whole new thing.

The state of things, at 38 weeks

I haven’t been this pregnant in the summer before. Both boys were born in the short, dark days of winter. It will be above 90 degrees most days this week. At 38 weeks, physical discomfort is the base state. But the heat gets in my head, makes everything feel swampy.

I still find pleasure in the novelty of this big belly, in the way it hardens throughout the day, and squirms as he adjusts in an increasingly tight space. I like getting dressed, making outfits that amplify what the bigness of this temporary shape signifies. My hair is thicker than ever, my skin clear — the gift of third trimester hormones and months of prenatal supplements and nettle infusions.

The first two trimesters of this pregnancy — while not without queasiness and fatigue — were steady. I felt a persistent ease and contentment that are not familiar to my typical inner state, solidly planted: in my marriage, in my friendships, in my work, in my finances, in myself.

My first two pregnancies were colored by so much uncertainty. I was 22 and everything was new: my marriage, my adulthood, the town we lived in, the people who made up our community. I was five months pregnant with Pan when I graduated from college in Chicago; we moved by train to Spokane two months before he was born. We didn’t have jobs, or a place of our own. I was scared, but also also scared to let on how scared I was, like saying it out loud would be enough to topple the whole precariously stacked thing.

I wonder about how my anxieties throughout those pregnancies may have impacted the people I was growing before they ever made it earthside. I wonder who this baby will be, with the steadiness I felt in the months I’ve carried him.

The past couple of months have been harder.

I had a series of iron infusions in May that my body responded poorly to, with worsening fatigue and a bad flu that stretched on for weeks — all while Sebastian was out of town on a work project for most of the month.

Then the child care plan we’d had in place since December fell through, a first crack at the certainty I’d been feeling that this time would be different, stable, born out on a foundation of support that we’ve been building for the past ten years. We don’t have a back-up plan. The average annual cost of infant care in Portland is $20K+. We won’t need care until early next year, and the only option right now is to trust that we’ll figure something out by then.

The world continues to be devastatingly impacted by the chaos agents of the current administration. This has been numbingly true for many months, but crept close this past week with layoffs at my work. This thrusts people I care about into precarity at a very difficult time to be out of work. It also creates a new layer of complexity in my planning for coverage during maternity leave — which could come at any moment now. It feels like a terrible time to be away from work, and from any impact I may (or may not) be able to make on things.

And yesterday I learned that, due to a family emergency beyond anyone’s control, my midwife will not be in town for the home birth we’ve been planning.

I think, with most hospital or birthing center births, it’s not so uncommon for an OB to be away and an alternate to fill in. In Portland, there’s no shortage of midwives who can step in for mine — but, in order for my health insurance to cover the birth, there must be a certified nurse midwife present, and there are very few CNMs in town who do home birth. The closest one available lives 1.5 hours away (and is willing to come); my last birth was 4 hours from the start of real labor to delivery.

My freezer is full of bone broth and mushy soups and brewed herbal sitz bath. I have a detailed note on my phone about all the things I’ve prepared to eat and drink postpartum, so I can spend some days in bed knowing I’ll have what baby and I need to recover. I’ve made multiple spreadsheets mapping out the work I’ve done in advance to keep my team moving forward while I’m on leave for eight weeks. Each weekend I chip away at my list of small things that need consideration and tending to.

It’s my impulse to attempt to plan for any eventuality — and to not really trust that anyone else will take care of me or provide the things I need to feel safe. The rug could get pulled at any moment. I know this because it has been, many times.

I spent much of this pregnancy feeling like the ground was firm beneath my feet. And much of that solidity is still true. Things are not the way they were when I was 22, or 24. My head knows that. It’s harder, I think, for my body to believe it.

P.S. I didn’t mean to be away from this space for so long. Sleep is evasive and I haven’t been out of bed before 6:30 am in several months, which has cramped the time (and mental capacity) I’ve had to be here. I’ll be finding new rhythms soon, and hopefully make my way back to it.