thresholds

The final trimester of pregnancy has been unexpected. After coasting through a summer of glorious running – albeit slower, but also sweeter than my non-pregnant summers of running – I contracted systemic poison ivy that wrecked me. Still going on six weeks of itch. I probably peed in a poison ivy bush off the side of the trail just behind our house. Two deep cuts penetrated my shin. It's hard to avoid a systemic reaction if urushiol gets into your bloodstream. I'd never had poison ivy before. I didn't even know what it looked like; I thought I was immune. Needless to say, I now know the leaves of three.

I'm slowly getting better. But I will never forget the itch, which brought me to my knees. Not sleeping for more than a few hours at a time, for over a month, has taken a toll. It's not an interesting conversation to have with people, "How's third trimester? You resting up?" People ask while staring at my belly. They're being nice. "Well, not really. I'm okay. We just haven't slept for weeks. I got systemic poison ivy. I itch. I shower five times a night. I sleep with socks on my hands. Yes, I can still run a little. We'll try to rest up. Mmmhmm. Yep, baby is coming. Yep, no sleep in our futures. No, I don't get maternity leave. I'm a grad student. It's okay, though, my advisor is great. Yep, we'll try to rest up. Mmmhmm. No, we don't need any more stuff. Thank you."

In dark early morning hours, I'd read about itch conditions way worse than my own. I'd cry, worried that my baby was itchy. Or at least not well. The midwives and OB tell me he's fine. That the heavy dose of prednisone I was on wouldn’t hurt him. That the ceaseless hives, post-poison ivy rash, should go away soon. Thank God my husband is a doctor. He parses through the literature, comforting me that I should get better. But together, we shake our head at the lack of information for pregnant women. In the grand scheme, I'm overwhelmingly fortunate and healthy. I've had an unremarkable pregnancy. I have access to great medical care. We can afford the out-of-pocket expenses, weird creams that sooth my itch, the ER-visit. I'm so lucky. Meanwhile, pregnant women, women in general, who're not so fortunate just have to endure. And the insanity leading our country only adds to the suffering. Less than a decade ago, as I began my professional running career, I was on Medicaid. If that were today, would I still have affordable health care under our new government's regime?

In trying to find meaning through these strange months, I thought that maybe the poison ivy was Earth's way of telling me to slow down. To notice the plants more. To be more in my body, this precious vessel for this one life. Not to mention, a vessel that's growing another body.

I have slowed down. I've become more lethargic, especially intellectually. Thank goodness I defended my prospectus, a PhD milestone, just as the reaction started. Once the rash overtook my body, even reading felt taxing, let alone writing an academic paper. I've slowed down physically. I walk slower. I notice a few more plants. I nap. I finally don't have a strong urge to run. Which maybe is pregnancy related.

Now, we wait for our baby. I'm almost 40 weeks. I feel like this time should feel more profound. Like I should be having revelations or breakthroughs in my final minutes of being just me, without our baby outside me. And yet, I don't feel that profound. If anything, I think the sleep deprivation and itch of the ivy produced the revelation that my suffering doesn’t hold much weight. It's not about me. It's never been about me. It's all about everyone, everything, every living and dead creature and decaying flower and road-killed raccoon. That we all share each other's suffering. And joy, too. Throughout these strange months, my joys have felt profound. Running and laughing with my friends. Laughing with my husband. Smelling the Night Sky Petunias in our yard. Celebrating Pops' 95th birthday. Soaking up Cottonwood leaves shimmering at sunset, green to yellow, at beloved CU South.

So, the threshold I’m crossing is that it’s less about me moving forward. There’s a whole other being who’ll come to this world, who’ll fill his lungs with the dry Front Range air just after the Equinox. He’ll come into worldly existence as a being who, too, can suffer. And feel joy. My roots extend past my inane self to another being! This is a threshold worth crossing. This is a time to be alive, to give, to extend, to breathe the fall air that’s still so hot, in mid-September, to air my rashed, flaking, healing skin in the blinding sun amid the dry grasses and the soft pine needles and the American asters, the purple petals with the yellow center, to itch and to worry and to love, to love my love and hold onto him as tight as my limbs will squeeze. I’m not crossing alone. Yes, my body is her own – a gloriously capable and resilient beast of her own – but we get by with help, a lot of help.