Week Nine (or I'm Not Counting)

ten is supposed to be the perfect number; the symbol of totality and completion. it's anything but that for me; ten is the number of weeks both my previous children lived before they were reclaimed by my body forever. so understandably, i'm getting slightly nervous.
okay, okay, that's an understatement. i'm exercising extreme self-control and relying heavily on your prayers and encouragement to keep from freaking out. i'll be sliding into week ten sometime soon, but seriously, i haven't been counting because i've learned by wretched experience that Anxious Anticipation of Horrible Milestone is far, far worse than Actual Living Through Horrible Milestone. friends of mine who have also struggled with infertility and baby loss confirm this -- for example, the days leading up to Mothers' Day are always more emotionally knotted than the day itself.
so my next appointment with my OB is in a few days -- i'm back in early since Tummymuffin III measured so small last time. i've been treating the approaching date with a wee bit of melodrama, feeling like it's going to be the Date We Discover the Fate of Our Doomed Child. will his or her heart still be beating? will she or he have grown enough to be viable? or will TEN once again be a marker of doom? doooooooom! (when i say melodrama, i'm not kidding.)
now, i've been working on a job that has me outside, in the mountains (note to the worried: i'm NOT carrying anything heavy; i sit down for most of the day). today three young deer appeared nearby. they looked at me, i looked at them, and they unhurriedly bounded away. and suddenly i felt like my heart was springing with them; suddenly i was filled with a pure and simple thought: in a few days i will get to see our baby! i'm going to see you again, my tiny heart! and all anxiety about the appointment was gone. shocked (and being me), i probed at this new feeling. it was real. and all i can say was it felt clean. clean like the way the first rain is scented; clean like a white sheet hanging in the spring sunlight; clean like the innocence i had with my first, untainted-by-fear pregnancy. and i thought of Isaiah 35, which says that the lame will leap like a deer and the mute will shout for joy.
my heart is still lame and mute much of the time; i cannot easily gloss over its woundings, nor will i pretend that all is shiny happy when it is not. but i do know that the One to Whom you are all praying on our behalf is called Jehovah-Rapha, the Healer. i did not expect such an astonishing, clarifying moment of redemption such as i received today, but i accept the love in which it was given, no matter what happens next.