A close friend of mine recently used my situation as a talking point among her New Yorker friends who were lamenting their quarantine in cramped living spaces. “At least you’re not pregnant,” she remarked, delving into the intricate web of worries that define my life. Their stunned reactions made me chuckle. My challenges are indeed substantial, powerful enough to shake even the most hardened New Yorker.
At seven months pregnant, my husband is serving in an undisclosed war zone as a trauma surgeon with the British Army’s special forces. Our only communication is through encrypted emails, and while he can occasionally Skype me, that depends on numerous factors: access to a computer, good weather for a clear signal, and no communication lockdowns due to security issues. When he left in January, the coronavirus was just beginning to emerge in discussions, and no one could have predicted that, just two months later, the world would be under lockdown, where the “safest” place might ironically be on a military base in a conflict zone.
Alone and quarantined, I find myself aimlessly wandering through our home in search of comfort. Writing usually provides solace, but not these days; instead, I often find myself reaching for ice cream. Writing feels risky as it forces me to confront aspects of myself that I’d rather not face, especially the whining I fear might escape my lips. Everyone has heard enough complaints about COVID-19; I don’t want to contribute to that noise.
I see an acquaintance who is also pregnant, thirty weeks along, posting on Instagram about her disappointment in canceling her baby shower. Suddenly, an alter-ego rises within me, ready to unleash my frustration. I see her sadness as a trivial concern; after all, we all have our burdens to bear alongside the pandemic. Why should she get to mourn something seemingly small? Bitterness brews in me.
At first, I feel indignant, but then I recall a Brené Brown podcast titled “comparative suffering” that I meant to listen to. Suffering is universal; mine isn’t more significant or valid than anyone else’s. Yet, I would trade my grief for hers in a heartbeat, and I know my friends battling cancer or COVID-19 would likely agree.
It’s a strange reality knowing I will give birth during an unprecedented pandemic. Yet, my greater concern lies in what awaits my husband upon his return. Transitioning from one front line to another seems insurmountable, and because pregnant women are labeled as “vulnerable,” he may need to isolate in a hotel before he can return home to work at Brighton’s county hospital. I worry he could contract COVID-19, leaving me to face childbirth alone, without him by my side to hold our newborn son. And those are just the ordinary worries.
The deeper fears creep in: what if he doesn’t return at all? What if something happens at his base, similar to incidents involving his military colleagues in Iraq? COVID-19 is a threat to my family, but so are the dangers of war. It’s a challenging admission, but I find myself wrestling with a sense of entitlement regarding suffering. We all have our struggles, yet someone else is always suffering more.
How do I navigate these feelings? How can I soften the anger and irritation swirling within me? How do I allow myself and others to grieve what’s been lost and acknowledge what’s at stake?
I recently picked up my copy of “When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chodron, a book I’ve been savoring slowly over the past year. She discusses “tonglen,” a practice that turns our usual instinct to avoid suffering on its head. It encourages us to visualize taking in the pain of others with each breath in and sending out healing energy with each breath out. This practice helps cultivate compassion and liberate us from selfish patterns.
Instead of comparing my suffering to others, I realize I need to accept both my struggles and those of others. Acknowledging and feeling these emotions is essential. Chodron suggests that “tonglen” opens our awareness to a broader understanding of reality and unveils the emptiness we all fear. This emptiness manifests in various forms: canceled celebrations, cramped living situations, or the absence of distractions we typically rely on. Yet, she argues that emptiness is not to be shunned; it’s a space to explore, leading to a deeper understanding of ourselves.
As I observe a sapling in the park across the street adorned with white blossoms, I contemplate its beauty amidst the chaos of our world. A passerby snapped a photo of it, perhaps feeling guilty for finding joy in such times. But beauty should not be overshadowed by guilt; rather, it should be embraced.
That blossoming tree symbolizes hope, reminding me that life continues, even amid suffering. While pandemics can halt baby showers and slow wars, nature remains indifferent and unstoppable. At seven months pregnant, my body knows this truth better than my mind; my baby kicks, blissfully unaware of the turmoil outside. I take a deep breath, looking toward tomorrow with hope, and I wish the same for you.
In case you’re interested in exploring more about pregnancy and its challenges, check out this great resource from Healthline. Additionally, if you’re curious about home insemination, you can visit this post for insights, as well as learn more about the process from an authority like Make a Mom.
Summary
This article explores the complexities of being seven months pregnant while dealing with the challenges of a deployed spouse in a war zone. The writer reflects on feelings of isolation, comparative suffering, and the importance of embracing both personal and collective grief. The piece highlights the need for compassion and understanding during a global pandemic, while also finding solace in the beauty of nature and the hope it provides.
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