Not both.
The interesting thing about that statement is that it presents us with a concept that we don't often imagine. Choosing something that is usually considered an emotion. But faith, like love and forgiveness, is a decision we make. A lifestyle. Not a default reaction. Not a feeling.
Which do you choose?
This week, I got some less-than-great news at my OB-GYN appointments. It wasn't bad news; just disappointing. Although the baby is developing just fine, he's measuring quite small. I know that technicians can only imperfectly guess about the weight of a fetus, he's currently (barely) tipping the scales at just under 5 pounds, plus he's breech right now. That, however, isn't my biggest concern - especially since I am only five feet tall and his daddy's on the short side of average, too. My real challenge is my blood pressure.
Lots of you know that I was diagnosed with hypertension about four years ago. I saw my PCP and a cardiologist, both of whom determined that my weight at the time, while high, would not have caused the numbers they were seeing. After exams and bloodwork, the frustrating conclusion was that it was simply "unexplained". Genetic. Ugh. Last year, I worked very hard to change my eating habits, exercise frequently, and reduce my sodium intake. I was doing about 50 minutes of cardio four or five times a week, and I ended up crossing something off my bucket list that I didn't even know was on it - I ran in Pittsburgh's Great Race!
All in all, I lost a total of about 19 pounds from my curvy but small frame. I wanted to lose another 10 more, but then (wonderfully!) got pregnant and put that goal aside. Still, though, my blood pressure was high. I was deeply frustrated. I'd followed all the "rules" to reduce it naturally, but my efforts were met with the same ugly numbers every time: 140/100.
I was given medication during my pregnancy to maintain my blood pressure, which has helped thus far - especially given my 4-month stretch of doctor-ordered abstaining from all exercise. After I was cleared for exercise, I found that I was so short of breath that I could hardly move without my inhaler anyway. So it was basically a no-go, and I'm not thrilled to say that I've gained around 40 pounds so far. Everyone insists it's "all belly", but I'm not so sure. Still, that's another story for another time.
My doctor has been both optimistic and realistic with me. He had celebrated every little victory with us along the way - hearing the heartbeat, feeling the kicks, passing the glucose test. Yet he has also gently reminded me that, due to my chronic hypertension, I'd have to be closely monitored the further along I was. No truer were those words than today, when my non-stress test results apparently disappointed the other doctor in the practice, who ordered two more in the next seven days. The baby's heart rate is normal, but I guess he's not moving as much as they would like.
Now, if you compare him to other babies, you're right. However, since the beginning, he's been on the "lazy" side, if you will. Unlike many babies, he doesn't keep me up at night kicking. He actually sleeps at night and seems to wake up around 10 in the morning. He has some flurries of activity around then, right before lunch, around 2:30, then after dinner. That's sort of his schedule. It has been since I felt him kick on Valentine's Day this year!
My pregnancy hasn't matched up with "the norm" either, though! The subchorionic hematoma I suffered happens only 10% of the time. I'm eight months along after three unexplained, consecutive miscarriages. I didn't break out in acne like most other moms-to-be. I didn't have much morning sickness at all, and I never threw up once (except for a brief bout with the stomach flu). So I'm different, I guess it stands to reason that baby might be, too.
Still, we're moving forward with tests for the dreaded but as-yet-unspoken diagnosis of pre-eclampsia hanging over my head. I'll hear soon enough, as I'm pretty sure the technician at Quest drew enough blood today to keep Nosterafu fed for a week. If I do have it, my already uber-flexible birth plan will just have to morph yet again. They will likely have to deliver the baby early for his sake and mine, since pre-E, as it's called, can truly be deadly. Even if I don't have it, they might want me on bed rest since the baby isn't doing much to impress them right now.
So I'm left at a crossroads. As I'm finishing packing up my hospital bags and determining what cute little onesie my baby will prefer to come home in, I can choose faith or fear.
It seems like fear is the more reasonable option. It makes more sense, after all. I should be afraid, shouldn't I? Of an emergency c-section, of my baby winding up in the NICU, of having to leave him behind for testing once I am discharged.
But fear won't get me through the next month. It will cripple me, then trip me, then laugh when I can't get back up. It will stifle my breathing and disturb my sleep and whisper "what if" in my ears a thousand times a day. It will invite me to play out the worst possible scenarios in my head over and over until I'm convinced they are the unalterable future.
Faith, however, will give me breath each morning - just enough for the day. Faith asks no more than to allow tomorrow to be tomorrow, and let today be today. Faith reminds me that God has not abandoned me, that my friends are with me. That my husband was by my side for all three of our losses, and he is here now. Faith instructs me to do what I can and put everything else in the hands of my Maker. And, with a shy smile, faith gently admonishes me that worry adds no years to my life and no strength to my journey.
I choose faith. It's not a feeling. It's a decision. Even if I feel fear, I don't have to choose it.
I won't let it speak for me. Or to me.
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