As those who have been reading my blog for a while may have noticed, I am usually quite passionate about my convictions, as well as most things I choose to write about. Today is somewhat different. Due to a great strain on me from a myriad of circumstances, I am temporarily lacking any and all passion. Just as motivation is necessary to be successful in any creative endeavor, writing is a function that can not be forced (not the meritorious sort, anyway).

Right now I feel as if the world is upon my shoulders. I am looking forward to things getting better, for I know in time, they will. However, considering the magnitude of major stresses presently upon me, it is no wonder my usually enthusiastic demeanor is pausing to contemplate, conserve energy, and to prepare for mourning.

In addition to the issues plaguing my marriage which essentially come down to deciding if it something I wish to continue, my friend whom I have mentioned recently expecting a baby boy with a major heart defect, is scheduled to give birth tomorrow. I drove the couple hours to spend the day with her on Friday, knowing it would be my last chance to see her before her life is turned into a whirlwind of hope, worry, uncertainty, and possibly immense grief. She disclosed a few details and other thoughts that she had not mentioned before, as I am sure they are too painful to talk about often.

All things considered, we did have a nice day together and I took the opportunity to appreciate her two-year old son more than I ever had. As I was getting ready to leave for my two-hour drive home, in what turned out to be a very stormy and ominous night, her unborn baby began to stir, pushing so that you could see the bulge protrude from her abdomen. As if to make sure we hadn’t forgotten about him, he moved and pressed outward for everyone to see.

After having time to think even more about her situation during my drive home, I had a very strange and intense dream later that night. I dreamed that the baby was pressing out so far that I began to see the shape of his face through her skin. He continued to protrude further and further, stretching her skin out in front of her. I began to worry he was going to break through, when the next thing I knew I was holding him with one arm. I yelled in disbelief, “Oh my God, he just came out!” but she didn’t believe me at first. I told her, “look! There’s the umbilical cord! He’s in my arm!” I quickly remembered that he will not be able to survive on his own and, panicking, used my other hand to dial 911. I shouted for them to hurry that a baby who can’t survive on his own was just born without warning. Before I knew it, there were people everywhere, coming from all around. We swept his mouth to clear out any excess fluid or debris and it seemed that he was able to breathe fine. I remember thinking how cute he was and the overwhelming feeling of joy and relief that came over me in realizing that he was going to be alright.

Reflecting on the random dreams I have had in the past that have managed to foretell an eminent event, I couldn’t wish more that the happy ending here turns out to be one of them.

Interestingly, I had no idea where this post would go when I began. It appears I found something to write about after all; although I truly fear the details of my next entry.

Disclaimer: Please forgive me if this narrative falls short of par, for I am excruciatingly tired as a result of getting very little sleep over the past 48 hours. The circumstances leading to my first sleepless night is the cause for the aforementioned quandary.

I am embarrassed to admit it. On one hand it seems silly. On the other it seems pathetic. And yet, if I had a third hand on which to place another perspective, it could be argued that it’s never a bad idea to be prepared. But prepared for what? Whatever did I expect to do with it? I’m not even extremely proficient at slicing cantaloupe. Yet as I have discovered, the anxiety caused by fear can drive us to do inexplicable things. Although we all react differently to the “red flags” perceived by our senses, our reactions which are influenced by previous experience as well as one’s individual personality are undoubtedly intertwined with our instincts for survival.

Expecting to take my kids on a short but fun retreat for the last couple of days of spring break, I reserved a cabin in the resort campground that is adjacent to an amusement park about 100 miles from our home. And though our little expedition did prove to be fun (at least during the daylight hours), I cut it even shorter than it was intended to be after getting absolutely no sleep the first night and knowing it would be no better the second. It had nothing to do with comfort; it had everything to do with mother bear syndrome and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

One could regard my demeanor as a bit over reactive; admittedly, it is humbling to report. However, considering our cabin (which was no Fort Knox by any stretch of the imagination) was relatively secluded and sitting just on the edge of a vast wooded area, at some point it occurred to me that I had absolutely no way to defend myself should the need arise. After all, anyone seeing us arrive that evening would know that dwelling inside this easily penetrable cabin was a woman with three children. No man.

This would be the reason, among taking several other precautions, for my sliding a considerably large butcher knife under the mattress, and strategically placing it so that I could grab the handle in a jiffy–although beyond that, I couldn’t fathom what I would do with it. How it even came to be there is somewhat perplexing. Feeling uneasy, I had risen from bed several times in order to verify the many noises I was hearing, when suddenly, and without premeditation, I found myself looking in one of the kitchenette drawers. After examining and ruling out the benefit of a pocket knife of sorts, I briefly considered the 9-inch butcher knife before reluctantly putting it into my hand. Not even remotely comfortable with the limited protection it offered, I quickly concluded that, whether or not I could put it to use, I was better off having it with me than with an intruder.

Analyzing some of the underlying psychology contributing to my lack of security, it could be plausible that growing up as a member of Generation X, which was showered with an onslaught of slasher flicks immortalizing the likes of the infamous Jason and Freddie, contributed to my imaginative scenarios. But impacting my state of mind more than the ridiculously gory horror films of the eighties are my personal life experiences that at times have threatened my sense of safety and reassurance. All of these elements together—some obviously fictitious, some quite real–multiply in notability when my awareness is heightened beyond it’s usual state.

A secondary factor is that lurking in the subconscious areas of my mind are the true horror stories I have been privy to. Although I used to be guilty of watching a great deal of CourtTV, I have personally known a few victims of senseless homicides, one of them happening when I was in the 2nd grade. Our babysitter who lived about ten minutes away was brutally murdered one night in her own home. Her younger sister was also savagely killed, while their brother was left for dead with severe head injuries inflicted with a baseball bat. Her body was later found in a nearby sewer pipe, the large kind leading to the creek that we kids often played in.

On a personal note, an encounter I have had which undoubtedly lends to my sense of susceptibility is having had my own house broken into a year and a half ago while my husband was out of town. This occurrence justified a fear based on possibility and turned it into a fear based on reality.

Additionally, I have had a couple of strange and alarming encounters while merely performing routine duties at common locations, which have caused me to frequently be looking over my shoulder. After being followed a couple of times and flat-out stalked by one creep, perhaps I should wear a t-shirt when I run my errands that says, “I’m watching you, too, so don’t even think about it.” Perhaps I’ll detail those experiences in a post entitled, “Grocery Store Stalkers: How Not To Shop For Dates.”

But where do you draw the line in being reasonably cautious and being paranoid? Was rigging the towel over the front window to cover the useless blinds unwarranted? Or blocking the doorway with a heavy wooden chair, which although I knew would not slow anybody down, would at least provide for a noisy entrance? Or leaving the light on in the bathroom all night so that from the exterior the cabin would possibly look less inviting to a prowler? Was it sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress that crossed the line? For it is definitely not something I thought I would ever do. Maybe the answer isn’t in the preparations I made (including having my cell phone within easy reach) but my level of anxiety.

Upon writing this narrative and with all things considered, I have come to this conclusion: I would certainly rather be caught prepared, in spite of looking foolish, than to be caught unprepared, proving me to be foolish for ignoring my instinctual red-flags. So laugh if you must, for I can appreciate the humor in how ridiculous I must have looked to the predator watching from a distance. On the bright side, I must have looked just crazy enough to keep him at bay.

In life, we rarely know ahead of time what course our journey will take. One thing we can count on is that the path will often wind, sometimes split to produce a fork, and occasionally veer without warning.

At present, a close friend and I are simultaneously facing turbulent roads stretched before us. The timing is bizarre, and frankly quite unfortunate, for neither of us will have quite as much to offer the other considering our individual circumstances. Although we currently live 3 hours apart, we have been friends for nearly half our lives. In our teens and early twenties we were a crazy sort of duo and in all honesty, really haven’t changed much since. The only differences are that we are both mothers now, and our escapades and misadventures sometimes occur a lot further away from home than did our “opening ceremonies.”

I have recently come to one of those infamous forks, faced with a major decision that will undoubtedly alter not only mine, but my children’s remaining journey. However, I would not exchange my difficulties for the position my friend is in, as her course has been unexpectedly hijacked.

Since no life is impervious to tragedy, the question that has always lingered in the back of my mind is, “what shall be my biggest misfortune?” At rare times I have pondered about what horrible circumstances I believe I could overcome versus the ones I know I couldn’t. Let my house burn down, or toss me a bout of cancer, anything I think–just so long as my children remain safe, growing up to enjoy long and happy lives. I fondly remember with each pregnancy the indescribable bond that a mother develops with her child even before he or she is born. The more they grew, so did my willingness to sacrifice life and limb for my unborn child. The thought of losing one of my children, or equally dreadful, the idea of something happening to me leaving them motherless, is more than I can bear to imagine. These are by far the worst realities a mother can know.

Three years ago one of our neighbors (who I had only met in passing) gave birth to a baby boy, the couple’s first child. The next day while still in the hospital he unexpectedly died with absolutely no warning that anything was wrong. Although we had not yet befriended each other, I was utterly devastated for them. Living two doors down, I couldn’t help but cry each time I passed their house. I was desperate to reach out, but never having actually introduced myself, and being ignorant to their customs as they are from India, I was at a loss for what to do. Finally prepared to make a fool out of myself, I took over a platter of homemade muffins accompanied by a heartfelt card (and a box of Chai tea, of course) to extend my sympathies. A few days later she called to thank me and invited me over. I spent the most heart-wrenching afternoon of my life getting to know this kind and grieving mother.

It wasn’t long before my husband and I had built a friendship with them. As nice a time we always had together, there was no escaping the underlying sadness we all felt for their loss. We don’t see each other as often anymore, but I am so very happy that one of the causes is their busy schedule due to recently adding a second healthy baby to their family.

My friend of 17 years, however, has not been as fortunate with subsequent pregnancies after experiencing a tragic end to her first.

Embarking upon motherhood earlier than most I had a major head start, for she waited until after 30 to have her first child. Her first pregnancy ended in heartbreak when she found out at 18 weeks that the baby, although presently living, would not survive. The doctors said that statistically the condition was very rare–a genetic fluke–and would have no bearing on future pregnancies. They advised her to continue on as she was for an uncertain duration until the baby’s heart stopped on it’s own. A couple of weeks later, the inevitable had happened and she was induced. Her very first experience with labor and delivery–meaning all the pain and discomfort associated with giving birth–was suffered in vain; for the sole reason to endure such agony had been stripped from her intentions.

In her grief, she regretted the condition hadn’t turned out to be Down Syndrome, or any other congenital anomaly that would not have proved fatal. I empathized with her desperate feelings, but assured her she would eventually have a healthy child who she wouldn’t trade for anything. She discovered she was pregnant again just five months later, the day after their beloved dog was struck and killed by a car. Thankfully this second pregnancy proved uneventful and she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who just this month turned two years old.

However, her third and final pregnancy in which she is currently in her last month has not produced the joy and anticipation we all hope for when expecting. At six months gestation she was inflicted once again with terrible news about the health of her unborn child. For undetermined causes, several of his organs have not developed properly and it is not known if he will be able to survive once born. He is certain to face open heart surgery within days of birth, but nothing beyond that can be determined. She has been forced to suffer a string of emotional upheavals as each specialist conveys a different prognosis. Uncertain whether or not her child will be strong enough to enjoy the activities of childhood or if he will even survive his first few days, she must prepare for the worst but hope for the best. She is literally buying baby clothes or choosing his name one moment and contemplating a burial service the next.

What must make matters all the more difficult is that inside the womb he knows no danger–he is an active and lively fetus, stretching and kicking like any other. While she stayed the weekend with us recently, she proudly showed my awestruck children the strange formations caused to her belly by a knee, fist, foot, or other unidentifiable appendage. Without sonography, she would be none the wiser to the life-threatening problems plaguing her baby.

With the impending birth drawing nearer I must admit that I am scared. I regularly have nightmares. I know I have the responsibility to be a strong and supportive friend, which means to be whatever she needs at the time. I fear knowing what to say, or when to call, or if to call. I fear being too emotional or not emotional enough. But mostly I fear for that helpless baby boy and the magnitude of the grief which ominously lurks around the corner.