It’s interesting how the notion of ‘fear’ changes as you get older. When you’re a kid, fear is generally the result of something that you don’t understand, but haven’t yet learned to dismiss as nonsense. Things like ghosts and monsters and such. As an adult, though, fear is more often the result of instability – of something taken away from you that leaves you with an uncertain or unpleasant future. As opposed to when you were younger and fear lasted long enough for Scooby or Shaggy to pull the mask off of the evil-doer, fear as an adult is more pervasive and long lasting.
Ironic, then, that the scariest day I can remember happened on Friday the 13th.
It started harmless enough. I got up early and headed to the gym. I lifted weights for about half an hour then changed into swim trunks and was earnestly swimming away at the Y pool when a lifeguard tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was Joe Camp. When I confirmed my identity, he made what is probably the scariest comment I have ever heard – “Your wife called – its an emergency and you need to get home as soon as possible.”
In the pool, wearing only my trunks, a 15 minute drive home – and knowing that this pregnancy has been incredibly hard on Jill – I was pure panic. The Y folks directed me to a phone, where I hurriedly told Jill I’d be there ASAP. Drying off seemed to take an hour, the drive home seemed like a month. When I got back to my locker I saw that Jill had called nearly 35 minutes earlier asking me to come home immediately. I just didn’t think to check my messages between lifting and swimming. I felt awful and guilty and mostly terribly afraid of what might happen to our babies.
When I finally pulled in the drive, Jill was outside waiting for me. She already had an appointment with the Ob/Gyn scheduled for later in the day, but they had got her in earlier as a result of our emergency. Again – the doctor’s office is only about 5 miles away, but it seemed like we hit every red light along the way. We were both too nervous to talk much but through a shared clenching of one another's hand, we made our way there.
Jill’s usual doctor was out of town and her replacement, while competent, was a bit detached in nature. She started her examination as if Jill and I weren’t practically melting in front of her. When she finally got to an ultrasound she – fairly casually – said, “Yup, there they are – two little heartbeats.” I don’t know how long she had been aware that our babies were ok, but up until that second Jill and I were thinking the worst. I lost it. I could not have been more relieved. The exam wrapped up and things looked fine. Jill was told to take it easy for a week or so, and also that this was only something to monitor – nothing to be anxious about.
By this point Jill had been in full-on panic mode for an hour or so. I’d been in a similar state for over 30 minutes. Once we knew the episode was behind us, we were finally able to talk through the anxiety of the morning. In those fearful moments, it’s like you know you’re only holding on by a sliver of hope and so talking about “what might happen” is the last thing you want to do. Afterwards, though, it’s almost therapeutic to talk through the emotions of the day and say some of the things you had been petrified of only 15 minutes ago.
More than anything else, this episode reinforces to me that we are out of the high risk zone. We’re past that 12 week threshold. Now – more often than not – our babies are going to be ok. I mean – my mom was in a car wreck when she was pregnant with me and I’m here to tell the story. I’m not taking anything for granted, but I do feel a bit more confident – or maybe comfortable is the right word – going forward.
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