I don’t want to admit that I am. But the fear is undeniable. Debra Rienstra (and her narrative that has been a companion to me through this pregnancy) calls it the “quiet, tensing fear, a constant, high-pitched hum that no one can hear but me.”
There is something lonely about pregnancy that can not be assuaged. I felt this from the very beginning and sort of expected it to go away with time. It has not and possibly will not.
It’s as if a pregnant woman enters this new realm of spiritual mystery, a water that must be traveled alone. For some reason I picture the underground lake from the Phantom of The Opera.
It is traveled alone because there is no other way. I don’t think our human minds or hearts can hold what it means to give birth to a life. We cannot fathom such a miracle, and the mother who carries the child cannot speak of the depth she experiences, simply because she does not have the words.
In the middle of the night, wide awake, I stare at the pack and play in our room where the new baby will sleep very soon. I walk over to it and push the button that turns on it’s nightlight. I touch the fabric where we will soon lay our son or daughter. And I hear the hum. The constant hum that Debra writes about. She says,
“One indisputable truth about pregnancy is that once the baby is in there, it must come out somehow. The end is near, the end is real. The only way out is through.”
I am afraid of the birth itself, I would be a fool not to be. But more than that, I tremble at the enormity of experiencing life on this level. Experiencing the Creator on this level. How is it that He gives us such a taste of something so far beyond our current capacity? I have not yet seen this child's face, and already I am overwhelmed with awe.