The Saturated Spaces

I want Evie to read about this someday and know that her father took up tentmaking for her. She also needs to know that, for nine months, her mother became a living tent of sorts—a shelter where Evie dwelled and developed.

Leaving Vancouver meant finding a new doctor. This was a sad price but a necessary one and my Vernon doctor came highly recommended by my folks. And before I continue I should mention that I am truly in good hands. But I have been spoiled with a Vancouver doctor with whom I share a faith and thus a set of values. 

My first visit with Dr. D here in Vernon was serious. Due to my age, he spent the majority of our meet-and-greet explaining the reasons an amniocentesis should be considered - a “conversation” I really did not want to be having. The chances of screening positive for one of the three big birth defects is, for women aged 36/37, are 1 in 218. I was floored. Completely shaken. The chances of my losing the baby from the amniocentesis are 1 in 200. There was no question. I had never, nor was I then, tempted in any way to endure the procedure. The results would have no bearing on our decision to deliver but still I felt a grief and came home and wept for at least an hour.

My emotional state revealed some pretty irrational feelings I have towards God. I sobbed to Greg that I felt that God would purposely give us a child with a serious defect - that it would be something He would do. “Where does that come from!?” Greg was astounded. I have done this before - put God in an unfair position of my own making. God allows suffering, yes. But that’s a very different thing than me victimizing myself at the hands of God. It’s just one more way I fear that which isn’t. Defects do not exist today. A God I control, also nonexistent.

“We will have a perfect baby from God,” Greg said in his gentle way. And I was completely soothed. I do believe we will love beyond reckoning Peanut and everything he/she is and will be.

The reasonable part of my sadness was my deep disappointment in this new doctor - direct, serious. Next to my Vancouver GP who is excited about Life, I was thrown and the experience has made me even more convinced in advocating, in some way, for the unborn.

It was finally real. As if 24/7 nausea and a supersonic sense of smell wasn't real enough. 

For reasons I’ll never know I’ve been reluctant to write out my feelings and experiences the past few months. But I’ve realized that I may never experience this again. And regardless, this is the beginning of the story of my child and what a shame to have nothing to look back on - nothing to hold on to when my memory fades, as it does and will.

Perhaps the most unexpected thing about pregnancy thus far has been the fear of having an unhealthy baby and that the fear a defect would be something of my doing. 

We moved to Vernon, not Hamilton (a post not worth the time really). We’re thrilled for this decision. For the move, Greg was away and had a bunch of guys lined up to help. I spent the days prior packing and on moving day things went smoothly. Except we didn’t quite finish so I left for Vernon the Saturday evening, spent Sunday unpacking and settling, drove back early, early Monday morning to finish up the apartment and drive back that afternoon. With no one around, I foolishly lifted a couple of far-too-heavy things and spent the next week beside myself afraid that my actions would result in a lost pregnancy. I don’t know if I’ve ever prayed so prostrate, with such pleading. I felt a grief.

I don’t know if I had ever experienced a real fear before that week. My fears have been mostly my own fabrications - fear of failure, fear of what people think, fear of being overwhelmed, etc. etc. But a real, physical fear that pertains to someone else - my child - was real. It had real implications. I was truly out of control. And I was undone. I had to surrender.

I still do. I still must. Every night. Even with Peanut’s heart beating away and his/her little wriggles comforting me in my inconsequential daily tasks (inconsequential in light of carrying a Life), I must surrender every night.

Two positives.

After something resembling panic took hold, I cracked and gave Mister a play by play from the Dr.’s office which he was reading during a wedding.

The Calling of Saints Peter and Andrew

- Caravaggio

This is a late post. Two weeks late.

I’m entering the Eastern Church. It was clear after Noland and I were taking after the Paschal liturgy that it has been 7 years since my first experience with Eastern Orthodoxy. Seven. Time to just do it. No reason why not to. I love our church. I love my husband. I love God.

As for how it will happen, turns out I will be getting baptized. The Orthodox don't accept Baptist baptisms - seems ironic when worded that way - which made the decision a nondecision) and it will have to be on our Pentacost which is May 31.

I’m glad I’m no writer!

INTERVIEWER

Yeats said famously that one must choose between the life and the work. Do you think that is true?

SONTAG

We are home - have been now for almost a month. I'm quite intent on going to Church while Greg is away on his next trip which is a long one - the whole of March. And so I am hoping for the courage and discipline to attend on my own and maybe even stay for lunch.

Our prayer corner is up. I've "used " it, in a way. Several days ago I was praying and letting myself feel a strong and deep sadness that comes when thinking about having a baby. And although I was in the other room, I turned towards the corner for something to hold. It is a reference point; a still and stable place in our home.

Our home - our little church.

Maybe I didn't tell the entire story.

I'm struggling to understand myself as a self in marriage. Church is one thing I am holding on to as an extension of me-ness. I haven't been to church all Advent - the stillness of Sunday morning in the apartment has been like a warm blanket. I've avoided all readings, prayers, conversations, candle lightings... I'm holding out for the dogs, a Christmas tree, hopefully some snow, books, games, food, wine, and being surrounded by people who have a lot of patience and grace for me.

I'm relapsing. I'm lonely at church and I desperately miss the clarity and just-rightness of St. James'. And St. John's. And Mary Mags. Even St. Peter's in all its hipness. So I went to St. James' last week.

I wouldn't be lonely at church if I wasn't expected to be with people so intently. See, I have not yet gotten to the place where church is not about me. And I'm honestly not working at moving on from where I am now - wanting something that feels good to an introvert.

I will come clean about something distinctly Orthodox that I'm struggling with. It's the hum. The activity. The movement. I used to wait to leave liturgy until after the post-liturgy readings because I was afraid to visit people without Greg or without an important task, like prepping food or getting my husband a coffee. But now I do it because it's the quiet time.

Anglicanism is minimal and still. It's aesthetically restrained. It's ordered and I understand it. I feel soothed in the experience and am thus soft to the readings and the prayers and the Eucharist. The rows of seats. The middle aisle. The symmetry in our space. The austere, sensible, and quiet beauty of the church.