I had a dream a couple of nights ago. I was nine months pregnant, and I really felt nine months pregnant (or I guess I did as much as I can imagine what that might feel like). My body felt big and full and strong. I was in labor, and J and I went to this hospital that was right on the border of the United States and Canada, such that the hallway outside the labor room was in the U.S. while the labor room itself was in Canada. For some reason, the nurses wanted to strap me down to the bed in my room, but I desperately wanted to labor while walking, which I begged them to let me do. They agreed, and J and I wandered down the hall and outside to these busy downtown streets (apparently it was a big, border city… now that I think of it, this place sounds just about perfect). We walked a block or so, and then we heard this loudspeaker voice, though I don’t remember what it said. We looked up upon hearing it, though, and saw this plane on fire. As we watched, it crashed down on the buildings in front of us, and people were running, and screaming, and terrified. I knew that it was sad and terrible, and that people were dying, but it never actually felt that way to me. Anyway, J said we had to go help the people in the buildings and on the sidewalks who were hurt, and though I wanted to help, I knew that I couldn’t because I was in active labor. When I told her this, she said, “okay, but I’m very disappointed in you.” So funny. I asked that she consider coming back to the labor room in Canada with me, but she said she had to help, which I understood. So I walked myself back, agreed to lay down, and starting pushing. J came back from her rescue mission just as I woke up. I guess she got to save lives and be there for the birth of her first child.
When I began to regain consciousness, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Though terrible things were happening around me in my dream, I was happier in that hospital, nine months pregnant, than in my real world where I may or may not be pregnant at all. I felt this absolute sense of peace there, which I knew would be gone as soon as I got up because the feeling of a child growing inside of me would disappear. And it did. It was an absence. I was surprisingly sad for the rest of the day.
We started this journey (went in for my first pre-TTC check-up) fifteen months ago. If we had started trying right after we were married, and had been successful right away, we’d have given birth by now. It’s alright that it didn’t happen that way. I wouldn’t change the last year of my life, even if I could. And, of course, what is simply is, and mostly what is is good. But I think sometimes it hits me just how ready we are. A year and a half ago, I wanted to be pregnant. Now I still want that, but mostly I want to start meeting our children. Sometimes (like last night at a party) I see mothers with babies and I feel a kind of ache.
When I pray (which I do not to God, per se, but to the universe, the scope of which is beyond me), I usually pray that the universe might entrust me with one of its children. I vow that if I am given a person to raise, I will do all I can not to take that honor for granted, or that responsibility lightly. I acknowledge that the child will belong not really to me, but to something much bigger than me. I promise to devote myself to raising him or her to be conscious, and grateful, and loving, and kind. I hope we’re trusted soon. (But I also hope no burning planes are involved.)