A super long post about faith and my placenta

At our 18-week ultrasound back in November, after we listened to the tech declare over and over again that Baby Amys was developing and measuring perfectly, she noticed that my placenta was lying low and that the tip of it was covering my cervix, a condition known as placenta previa.

I had heard of placenta previa from other mothers and read about it in my pregnancy books, and it usually was accompanied by horror stories of bleeding and bedrest, so I was naturally concerned. But after talking with my doctor, she assured me that since the placenta is attached to the uterus wall, and that my uterus had a lot of growing to do in the next 22-weeks, that there was an excellent chance that it would move away from my cervix and I would be able to deliver this baby without a c-section. Because, as she informed me, all I needed was for my placenta to be at least one centimeter, preferably two, away from the birth canal for me to be able to deliver naturally. And I LOVE my doctor. And I trust her. And when she said that she’d be “shocked” if it didn’t move, I tucked all thoughts of my placenta away and just focused on our super healthy baby that I was growing inside of me.

So fast-forward to last month at my scheduled 28-week ultrasound, where I walked into my appointment confident that everything had been resolved and all bits and parts were where they should be. Because my stomach, and therefore my uterus, had grown tremendously during the previous ten weeks, so I just assumed my placenta had moved significantly away from the cervix. And then I was measured, and while it had indeed moved, it had only left a measly 0.67-centimeter space between it and my cervix. Not even a full centimeter. Not nearly enough room for me to be cleared for the natural birth I had been hoping for.

Needless to say, I was crushed. In the past ten weeks of serious belly growing, my placenta had barely moved one full centimeter. And unless it moved half a centimeter more in the next months, I would have to schedule a c-section. And while I know plenty of friends that have had all of their kids via successful cesarians, but my mind was set on having this baby in the same fashion I had Taylor. Because it’s familiar to me, and because I have never had a major surgery, so the unknown of the recovery-time while mothering two kids without family close by scared the bejeezus out of me.

And once again, my doctor talked me down off the ledge and assured me that it was still possible for all my parts to rearrange in the next few months, and that I would come back for another ultrasound at 32-weeks to measure. But I was discouraged. If it only moved such a small amount in ten weeks, what chance did I have for it to move significantly in the following four weeks.

And now I’m going to switch gears completely to something that I haven’t talked about on this blog yet. For the past five months I have been attending RCIA classes to become a Catholic. Growing up, I was baptized and confirmed Methodist, but after graduating high school and starting college, the last thing I was doing on Sunday mornings was getting up early and going to church. I never felt as if my belief in God had wavered, it just wasn’t a huge priority in my life to go to church and practice my faith.

Chris is a cradle-Catholic, and after we started dating 12 years ago and a major faith-holiday, like Christmas and Easter, would roll around, we would attend Mass together at whichever local Catholic church had the best schedule for us. When we moved to Asheville eight years ago, we sporadically attended the Basilica downtown, but with my work-schedule as a night-bartender and Chris’s as a golf pro, very rarely did we fit church in our weekend routine. But when we would get to church, I always left feeling good. I always felt recharged on so many levels. And even though I was unfamiliar with the many gestures, memorizations and other routine rituals present during a Catholic Mass, nor did I take communion, I always admired the tradition and unity that the congregation partook upon during each church service.

And after Taylor was born and our schedules shifted with Chris’s normal nine-to-five, weekends-off job, we started to become more frequent church-goers. One reason being that we realized how much we have to be lucky for, and that we needed to take any chance we could find to give thanks and remind ourselves how blessed we are. And also because we started to going to a different Catholic church in the area, St Eugene’s, which held a priest, deacon and congregation that we all found to be very warm and welcoming. We knew other people that worshipped there, and it just felt like a good place to be at. And after joining the parish at the beginning of 2009, we had Taylor baptized into the Catholic church right after her first birthday.

But even though we joined as a family, I wasn’t a full-member yet because I hadn’t converted. And when we went to Mass I joined in some of the verses and hummed most of the songs, but still held back when it was time for communion. And after another year of participating at an arm’s length, I finally decided to take the appropriate steps in becoming a Catholic. And to do that, I have been going to Mass each Sunday since late summer and also attending a weekly RCIA class. And these classes have taught me a lot. At first it was just super-duper interesting to relearn all of the history of the Bible. I hadn’t studied that subject matter since junior high confirmation classes, and to reintroduce myself to all of this awesome material as an adult was truly eye-opening. I definitely have a lot more questions, coupled with twenty extra years of life-experiences, and therefore a much better understanding of the subject matter.

I also have learned to look past a lot of the preconceived notions I had about the rigidness of the Catholic church and of other organized religions. When it comes down to it, in my eyes, it all boils down to us loving ourselves and others the way that God loves us. And it’s about forgiveness, and not judging others. And it’s about being the best possible wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor you can be. You have to be selfless and patient to fill all of those roles, and when you feel like you’re succeeding at those things, you just feel good. It’s not about following the rules and just showing up to church, you have to believe in your heart that you want to be a loving person, and then do what needs to be done to become the best version of yourself. That’s what I believe.

And I also have started to take great comfort in knowing that God has a plan for me and my loved ones. I have always been a controlling person. I like to know exactly what is going on, how it started and how it will end. And in becoming a mother I have learned to let go of a lot of that control and handle some of the unexpected pinches I am thrown with a finesse and calmness I didn’t possess three years ago. And being able to just let go of certain things really does feel good. Not having a plan, not knowing what our schedule looks like next week, not having a clue what I’m gonna make for dinner tomorrow, it’s all kind of freeing in a way. And understanding that certain things are completely out of my control, such as Ruby shedding dog hair everywhere, Taylor throwing fits when I ask her to wear pants and my neighbor parking all three of his cars in the cul-de-sac, it’s best for me to stop stressing about those things because there’s really nothing I can do about them. That’s life. They’re not harming me or others, and I just need to accept them.

So after my 28-week ultrasound and all of the disappointment that followed in that my placenta hadn’t moved enough, I started praying. A lot. And at first I basically just prayed to God to please, Please, PLEASE move my placenta. Come on, God. Just do this one thing for me. I promise I’ll be super nice to everyone and go to church every Sunday for the rest of the year. I just really don’t want a c-section or any other complications with this pregnancy. Just please do this for me.

And then last Sunday, during my RCIA class, I realized what I was doing. And sometimes it’s really hard to say, think and do the same thing. And while I was really good at telling myself and others that I was totally cool with God and his plan, I really was just trying to manipulate everything to work in my advantage. I still wanted what I thought was best. And so that night I prayed again. But this time I told God that I was willing to accept whatever he had planned with me during this pregnancy. If I had to have a cesarian, then that’s obviously the way He felt Baby Amys should enter this world. It’s out of my hands, and I just have to trust and have faith in Him that everything will work out the way it should be.

And as preachy as that sounds, it really did calm me instantly. It was like a big deep yoga breath to my soul. And yesterday when we went in for my 32-week ultrasound to check the position of the placenta, I was ready to deal with whatever we found out. As long as the bean was healthy, that was all that mattered, but I was truly expecting that nothing had changed and that we would be confronted on scheduling a c-section.

So you can only imagine the joy that radiated throughout the room when the ultrasound tech announced that my placenta had moved three – THREE! – centimeters in the past four weeks, and that there was no reason to believe I would have any complications during a natural delivery. Yes, folks. We are clear for take off. No scheduled c-sections on any calendars in this house. Baby Amys will make it’s debut whenever it feels like blessing us with it’s presence.

And even though this sudden, significant movement of my placenta should not even be termed under the same word that describes unbelievable acts such as the rescue of 33 trapped Chilean miners or other extraordinary occurrences, but I do truly believe it was a miracle. And, of course, the first thing I did after finding out the good news was silently thanked God for allowing it to happen.