29

RECKLESS

by April Hoss

It’s hard to be pregnant again after a loss. It feels a little like being in a campy horror film. You know right away which character is doomed, which doors should stay locked, which scenes mean it’s all over. You want to scream at the TV (or in the shower or the car . . . lots of screaming seems appropriate), but you also know screaming would be futile. In fact, that should be the title of this bloody, predictable film you’re living in—Futile.

I was innocently sitting at Starbucks, editing a synopsis due to an editor, weighing the pros and cons of pulling the trigger on the chocolate croissant that had been eyeballing me, and then the next sip of my coffee tasted funny. Off somehow. The certainty of it struck me there in my seat. Not because it was planned or any effort had been made or because of anything to do with dates and temperatures. I just knew. I packed up my laptop and notes, drove home, walked straight to the bathroom, did my thing, found my husband and son in the living room and announced flatly, “Well, I’m pregnant.”

I did not feel excited. I did not feel emotional or ecstatic. I felt meh. Oh. Fine.

We went out for nachos, a preplanned lunch date, and I heartlessly pushed my chips around the plate. My husband and I did not hold hands and trade baby names; we didn’t look across the table teary-eyed and talk about the beautiful miracle happening in our midst. I’m not sure what he did. I stared out the window until our food was cold.

(As an aside, had I realized I’d soon be saying farewell to all food, I would have made a smarter choice that afternoon. While we’re on the topic, I’d like to now apologize to cheeseburgers, Caesar salad, and the entire canon of Mexican food. When we at last reunite, it will be Shakespearean.)

I didn’t plan to tell anyone. All the emotional heavy lifting required when announcing a miscarriage far outweighs any excitement at the initial belief that a baby is coming. But the morning sickness I didn’t expect led to a prolonged absence from basically my entire life. My new exile to the couch meant there would be no guarding this pregnancy or the inevitable tragedy that would ensue. We told people. And again and again, friends and family said the words I didn’t feel: “That’s so exciting! Congratulations!”

Are you congratulating me on my broken belly with the abysmal track record, on the unfortunate baby taking up residence there, or on my “bad luck” diagnosis of two years ago? I thought every one of these things. What I said was, “Thank you.”

When it comes to being pregnant, I will always sleep believing there is a monster breathing under my bed. I will never post a photo to social media holding a pregnancy test as the color gives way to great news. I won’t download pregnancy trackers or start a newborn board on Pinterest. I will Google though. Boy, will I ever. The web’s siren call of statistics and forum discussions waiting to tell me either all is well or all is lost is undeniable. I will hunch over my phone, thumbs ablaze, going insane.

Mania will take hold.

I hire a doula and then immediately regret the decision. I draft in my head the cancellation e-mail I’ll have to send in a week or two.

I take my son to a baby store, and we choose two newborn outfits that look mostly gender neutral. I don’t remove the tags.

I text some girlfriends, asking for prayer because I am pretty sure I am having a miscarriage due to my sudden ability to eat lunch. I tell my mom the same thing. No one thinks lunch is all that frightening. I creep back to my forums.

My husband asks if he can share the news with his coworkers. I bite my lip. Doesn’t he know they’ll all pity him?

I watch my son push his wagon around the yard and hear him say one of the three phrases he’s mastered, “OhboyOhboyOhboy,” and feel relief that this loss will go over his head. He looks back at me, his only companion for 85 percent of his days, and I feel guilty that he won’t have a brother or sister to play with soon.

At my lowest, I begin composing a Facebook post to inform our friends and family that the pregnancy they’d been rooting for is over. Admittedly, I do this while eating ice chips and saltines, laid up like a wounded zombie. In the midst of my madness, I never actually present any symptoms of miscarriage. I present symptoms of hopelessness. I just can’t name it.

A new worry sets in as I write this sad status update. What if people don’t believe that a person can have three consecutive miscarriages and still love God? I have to be very strategic in my spiritual PR. God is counting on me to defend Him.

I never could get that status update just right.

Somewhere in those days that felt like one unending hangover . . . with the flu . . . with mono . . . with military-grade food poisoning, my husband asked if I loved this baby, the one I was waiting on to die.

“No.” My chin quivered. “I don’t want to. This one will just leave me at the altar like all the others. Seems reckless to start loving it.”

He thought for a moment, his blue eyes wandering to our fireplace and blocks and Thomas the Train books scattered on the floor. “Don’t you know all love is reckless?”

Even in the worst horror films, there is a turning point: the main character at last sees the roommate/girlfriend/camp counselor for who they are and starts running out of the monster-infested woods.

“Don’t you know all love is reckless?”

At my husband’s words, I turned my feet away from my woods.

All love is reckless. I know this. My mind understands that age or disease or accident will come for us all. I’m going to die, but that doesn’t keep me from loving my parents or my brother or my friends or my husband and son.

But with this baby, I was letting death win. I insisted that this love be safe. I demanded that this love be sterilized. Sterile things are cold, empty, hard. I felt like I couldn’t love this baby because I was hurt by my history, but let’s be real: I couldn’t love this baby because I was afraid.

Forget that.

There’s a story in the Bible that used to mean very little to me, a horror story in its own right. A desperate father seeks out Jesus to heal his demon-possessed son. The demon was especially strong and had been tormenting this man’s boy for years. He wanted his boy healed, but life without this demon seemed unimaginable. Like all my favorite people, this man was very honest with Jesus. He uses the phrase “If You can,” in his request. He tells Jesus, “I believe. Help my unbelief.”

I can’t read this story anymore without weeping. That is the song my cold, hard, frightened heart is singing as it thaws back to life. That is my battle cry for my baby. Help my hopelessness, my unbelief.

God, keep this tiny heart beating.

God, give me a reckless heart.