Fear

Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place.

—Psalm 28:2

When I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I felt delight. But this time, one split second after the deep happiness, what I felt was fear. I prayed, but mostly in a manic way, almost chanting out loud, please, please, please. After the miscarriages, I’m one of those patients who drives doctors and nurses crazy, because I know too much about the dark side of this. I know what we’ll see means, and what hmm means, during an ultrasound. Worst of all, I know what silence signals. Silence is always, always bad.

My cousin Melody was pregnant as well, after one healthy child and three miscarriages. One night, when we were all gathered around our table, another friend asked me if I was feeling nervous, and I redirected the question to Mel, who was almost thirty weeks along. “Well, I’m nervous, of course, but I’m sure it will get better. Mel, when did it get better for you?” She didn’t bat an eye. “I wish I could tell you something different, but I’m scared every single day. We know too much. We know what can happen.”