Hyperemesis Gravidarum: A Diary

"YEEEEEEOUCH!!!"

This morning I woke up at 3 A.M. with such a pain in my left, lower abdomen. I could barely breathe. I tried to turn over to make it go away. No dice. I tried to get up to make it go away. No dice; it hurt so bad I couldn't get out of bed. Breathing, breathing, trying to breathe through it. Scary. I called my husband, but I'm in an adjustable, hospital-type bed, and he's snoring away in the next room. He didn't hear me.

Finally, I was able to get up and go to him. The pain was awful but only on the left side. It waxed and waned just like birthing contractions, the real ones. For a second there I thought we were going to have to go to triage. They seemed to be getting better when Elise got very active. So much so that it scared my husband.

"Does she always move around like this?" he asked.

I didn't want to say, because if something is wrong, I don't want to be the one who said, "Everything's fine." She did seem rather active to me. She was rolling around and got the hiccups. She seemed agitated, but perhaps she didn't like being woken up to yelling and being strangely squeezed on one side. I dunno.

At any rate, I'm lying here in the dark two hours later, much better, yet kind of uncomfortably crampy at times, wondering what happened, how Elise is and when this all will end.

Elise hiccupped over 200 times before falling asleep, but of course, since I typed that she has kicked me twice and rolled once to let me know that she is awake and I am wrong. Oh boy! I can see the teen years now.

I still want to tell you about the tree outside my window. Also, the other day my husband suggested that I compose a list of all the unfun things I've been through in this pregnancy. I'll share that too but not right now.

I need to detox from the daily global wave of bad news reported by various online news agencies. I need to go and breathe.

The Orange
A week or so ago I was attempting to eat dinner when my little boy picked up an orange and lobbed it at my chest somehow. I say "somehow" because I didn't really see it happen. My fork was mid-way to my nauseous mouth when I was hit.

In my defense, this orange was a good size and particularly solid. Also, I am overflowing with pregnancy hormones and pity for myself. In addition, my son sometimes does weird things that make me constantly wonder whether he's normal or not, which is just another way I try to gauge what kind of parent I actually am. And I'm not always sure of myself.

So when this unexpected orange thudded against my chest I was so shocked that all I could do was cry. Yes, I started bawling because my son threw an orange at me.

I looked at him wondering what in creation had just occurred. He only stared back at me in astonished silence. I couldn't get enough air for crying (and because the gut monkey has taken my lungs hostage with her big ol' 4-pound baby butt).

A few seconds of looking at one another passed when he jumped up and ran to the bathroom. I heard him retching into the toilet puking up all his dinner.

He was so upset that he hit me with the orange that he became physically ill.

I have never been a puker (outside of HG), and it must take some powerful emotion to elicit the vomiting response. I didn't know whether to be disturbed or flattered. And while I don't know exactly what to think, I am glad that he didn't just sit there looking at me with no reaction at all, because that would be psychotic. Sorta like me.

Sometimes that's the reaction I have when he is in pain; I just shut off and sit there looking at him. I link this response to the HG-related second trimester termination of my first pregnancy, because a) it involves not being present to the concept of my children in distress and b) abortion is where that response began.

I need to be more aware of that and work to eliminate it. I need to push through my self-preserving "necessary" numbness 100% of the time when my children are in pain. I need to make sure I model the appropriate response so that my children don't become emotionless, orange-lobbing menaces to society.

Anyway, it turns out he was winding up the orange like a pitcher when the bigger-than-his-hand orb simply slipped free and went zinging through the air. It was an accident; he honestly was as surprised as I.

So that's the deal with the orange.

I am 32 weeks and currently working on the first day of not only the rest of my life but also the 33rd week. These last three weeks of bed rest are not going to go by quickly. My prediction is based on the fact that yesterday was a month long and thoughts of being mired to the bed all day today cause beads of sweat to pop out on my upper lip.

My husband tells me I'm in the last stretch and not to worry about it. And then he grumbles over tending to the "pee pot" when he gets home from work, so he sort of lacks that jolly sincerity he tries to otherwise convey re: the nearness of the end of this entire hellacious ordeal.

19 more days of bed rest (not counting the rest of today, and let's not).

I missed my vitamin the night before last and suffered cat litter cravings more than usual yesterday. I have found that Mylanta Mint Flavored gas pills have the texture of what I imagine is cat litter when crunched and the added bonus of chalky goodness that lately I love so well.

Tomorrow I will tell you about the tree outside my window.

It's still Spring Break. Itty-bitty wants to play a game, and I have already spent too much time on the computer answering email, so no journaling today.

Tomorrow I will tell you about what happened last night with the orange. I'm not sure if I should be disturbed or comforted.

Doody. That's what I feel like. The bizarre cigarette smell is getting stronger and more bothersome. I feel sick all the time, but this nausea is enough of a low-grade that the pukes are somewhat controllable with food and such.

I'm working on week 32. A precious friend and fellow HGer lost her son at 32 weeks. I always think about that at 32 weeks. I know not to apply it to my situation, but I do think about it.

Ok, journaling is going to have to wait until tomorrow. Itty-bitty is enjoying Spring Break and just got a Siamese twin strawberry in his fruit bowl. He is begging me to sign off so he can call Daddy and tell him about the discovery of such a treasure.

Ripley would be proud.

Email I received regarding Santa:

"You guys are so right about the Santa thing. My Mom and Dad taught me not lie. I was punished for telling small fibs. But they told me a big lie for eight years about Santa. I was so disappointed about there being no Santa, but I grew up of course and got over it. So many people forget why we celebrate Christmas. What would everybody do if all the stores closed and everyone's credit cards were declined? Christmas would be doomed!

My family has a tradition that everyone brings a tree ornament and when we all sit at the table for dinner my grandmother reads the Christmas story (the birth of Jesus just to clarify) and every time she says the word "the" during the reading everyone passes his ornament to the right. When the story is over, we get to keep the ornament we are holding. Everyone has grown to enjoy it, and it gives us a chance to hear the true meaning."

We're all hanging in there. Hope you are too.

My son is sick, so we'll see how long it takes me to contract whatever it is.

I got up before 4 A.M. this morning. Couldn't sleep for whatever reason.

I'm feeling a little emotional lately.

Finished Elise's stocking yesterday. It's cute, but now I'm frightened and slightly depressed that I have nothing else to work on. Time will go slower if I don't do something.

Last year we kept some of the Christmas boxes outside in the shed. The squirrels got in there and ate everything including my husband's stocking. He needs one, and I do have another kit, but it's Santa and who cares about Santa? I want to get rid of it and make him something else with a theme more appropriate for the season.

We don't do Santa. My in-laws think we're nuts. We just decided early on that we didn't want to start out fibbing to our kids. This type of honesty is important to us. People are like, "OMG!" It seems to many to border on abuse.

If a kid never experiences the whole "Santa" thing he doesn't miss it. Our tot has tons of fun on Christmas morning, and we get all the credit to boot! Ha! A perk, not a motivation.

Christmas isn't "Santa" over here. It's Christ's birthday, but He gives us all the presents including the biggest one: Himself.

So we don't do "Santa." Big deal. Our kid is learning to trust us and knows that Christmas is about Christ. If it were about "Santa" it would be called "Santamas."

Love to all.

Stocking work is all I did yesterday therefore, yesterday was a relatively good day. Later in the evening I started to feel siiiiick, sick, sick. Hubby brought home some coconut-lemon grass-chicken soup to die for. It was probably the most delicious thing I have "et" since this whole HG mess began. He also bought me some pad Thai. It was OK, but nothing compared to the soup. Still, later in the evening I had to get out Old Trusty, my blue emesis basin, because I thought for sure I was going to hurl. It freaked me out a little because I thought, "Oh man, don't puke the soup up and ruin it forever too." Once you puke something up you never really feel quite the same about it, no matter how delicious it was prior to puking.

My Little-little has started taking more self-directed interest in his gestating sister. This morning he came in to snuggle and he peeled the covers back saying, "I want to say something to Elise." I was pleasantly surprised as he said, "Hellooooo, Elise. Helloooo in there! I love you! When are you going to come out?"

We talked about her a little and he said, "I want two." I asked him what he meant and he said he wanted two babies. Forgetting he was five for a moment, I said, "Well gee, OK, I'll just get sick again and go live at the hospital with tubes in me for another year."

"Goodie!" said he, "Then we'll have two babies!"

I clarified, "The next baby we're getting is from Korea, not from me. There will be no more babies from me, I say!" And then I tickled his neck while he dissolved into laughter that ended the subject.

Ohhh, I got me some snuggle time this A.M., people. I kissed his little elbows and his face and neck and ears. He was laughing and accidentally bit my nose. "Hey, if you're hungry you need to ask Daddy to make you some toast, but you can’t eat my nose for breakfast!" Something about that really cracked him up, and he laughed and laughed like I was the funniest person in the world. To him, I was. Your children make you a hero every day.

Last night I dreamed I was driving a car past a stadium in Rome. In the stadium there was a multi-level scaffold with tons of people standing in a white-robed choir singing Agnus Dei. We drove away with fading strains riding the currents of wind flying in through open windows. I wanted to stay, but my biological father was driving. He took us to a church where they spoke and spoke saying nothing at all. Then I woke up.

30 days left to my hell. I am wondering if something else will develop and I will have to stay on bed rest. Ugh.

You do realize that this diary is coming to an end. In few "short" weeks it will be over. There will be that much less of me to read, and won't we all be relieved!

This is going to be short, but here are the important points of the day:

1. The gut monkey is still dancing.
2. My preschooler has informed me that he wants to marry the waitress from Waffle House, because she wore purple eye shadow and glitter last week.

After enduring years of his unfettered preference for Barbie, it is good to know that he is inclined to marry someone of the opposite sex.

I am now convinced that he liked Barbie because she was pretty and not because he wanted to be Barbie.

Went to see Doc on Friday. Nothing much to tell. He said a test two weeks ago showed I am still anemic, but he wasn't surprised as I have had nutritional deficiencies ever since the HG. He tried to give me some iron pills in a blister pack, but I didn't want to bring them home as iron is one of the leading causes of fatal poisoning in children under six. He looked at me in cock-eyed surprise. "Really?" the father of a two-year-old asked. Oy! "Hello, how can you be a doctor and not know that?!" I questioned.

"Well," says he, "just put them where he can't get them."

"I'm on bed rest," I remind him, "If they're out of his reach, they're out of my reach, so what's the point?"

He thinks I'm just being difficult, but that's OK. He knows me by now. For instance, as I was waddling down the hall to the exam room I met him in the hallway. He looked at me and started laughing.

"Eh, what's the problem here?" I demanded pseudo-snippily.

He just laughed more. It’s great to actually like your doctor!

Went today to try to get better 4D pictures. Snuggle Butt was snuggling even more than before. We got nothin’. I don't care. I think it's cute that already she's being "difficult.” She is saying, "Hey, be patient. Wait on me. This is my private time growing with God; it's nunya business!"

The sonographer was truly sorry. She kept apologizing because we don't get our money back or anything. I was tickled. She said I was the only one this had ever happened to and that all her other patients did very well on their second try. I'm so special!

Or rather, Elise is so special!

Having "stitches" in my tummy today. Uncomfortable. Hope it's nothing. Feels like something is ripping.

Hanging in there.

I have had an earworm for the last three days. An earworm is a song that gets in your head and refuses to leave. When you feel one coming on you are supposed to punch yourself in the throat to kill it, but I neglected to do so. Therefore, Who Am I by Casting Crowns is all up in my head feasting on my brain. Evidently there's more up there than I thought. I mean, three days!

Shooooot.

Pica rears its ugly head. Pica is Latin for "magpie," a bird that will eat almost anything. For me, pica started about a week ago. There was no suggestion or mention of pica. I just started having weird cravings and then remembered pica, which I've never understood until now. Pica is the craving of non-food items. I've never had this before and have to say that I know it's weird, but I simply can't help what I'm craving.

I would like nothing better than to sit down to a bowl filled to the rim with cat litter. And not the clumping kind either, but the kind with the big, shale-type flecks. Ohhhhh, ungh, nothing sounds better! I'd top it off with two new pieces of school chalk, white. I'd like to break a clay pot and nibble on the shards for a snack. I'd absolutely drool over a cup or so of those little plaster dooley balls all over the ceiling. Oh man, that sounds almost as good as cat litter! In between meals I'd just like to suck rocks. Mmmmm!

I know I can't eat these items so I don't, but if I could, believe me, I would! Instead I eat a soft pretzel with big pretzel salt grains on top and I pretend the salt is cat litter, yummy, delicious cat litter! I can't have much of this obviously, being that it's salt. However, for the moment it's delightful.

I go to the doctor's today, and I will ask him to test my blood for iron deficiency or some mineral deficiency that may be causing the cravings.

Pica is weird and just one more part of the extreme bizarreness of this pregnancy. I can't wait until it's over. In the mean time, what I wouldn't give for a heaping bowl of Tidy Cat!

The days are crawling by. Ugh. I am so sick of being sick. I want to be able to eat something wonderfully pungent, my usual unsick fare, with confidence, without a care or even one thought of "this is not going to go or stay down." I want to eat with gusto! Lots of former hyperemetics eat like cows when they are well and end up gaining lots of weight. I can see myself being one of them.

I had always been 126 lbs until my son was born. I ballooned up to 197 in that pregnancy due to bed rest. After a year of no exercise and no diet change I found myself back down to around 132 or so. I stopped nursing when my baby was two years old (current WHO recommendations), and I shot back up to 145. I wasn't really happy with that, but every time I thought of dieting I would think of the three pregnancies and combined time of having no ability to eat and constant puking. Of course I couldn't bring myself to willingly forgo food then! So I accepted my weight and bought bigger clothes. I wonder what will happen this time. Wonder if I'll even be able to get back down to 145 without doing anything special. Dunno.

I started walking around our three-acre yard about five months before I got pregnant with Elise. That was fun. I think I dropped a couple of pounds, but I wasn't really trying. I did it to relieve stress and to regain some energy. I hope I can go back to walking, but I know I'm going to have my work cut out for me with two little ones!

Bed rest. How long has it been? Counting the time I couldn't get out of bed and counting the time I wasn't allowed to get out of bed, so far it has been around 25 weeks. 25 weeks! How bad is it?

Yesterday I saw a commercial for the new Dow Scrubbing Bubbles toilet bowl brush with disposable head, and I almost cried because I longed to be able to get up and clean the toilets like a normal person. I thought, "Oh dear God in Heaven, if I could only scrub the toilets!"

"What are you going to do when this ordeal is over?"

Some will go to Disney World—I will clean the toilets with an ear-to-ear grin.

Luckily, I have a new distraction: a stocking kit for Elise. I'm making one of those felt Christmas stockings for her. I made one for her brother when I was stuck in the hospital for five weeks. It was a Bible scene. A single figure took me something like seven hours to embroider, sequin, stuff and appliqué. I'm a fiend for these kits, a fiend! Elise's stocking is also a Bible scene, and it is a hoot to put together. I spent around six or so hours on it yesterday and got part of one figure embroidered and part of another embroidered, sequined and appliquéd. It made the day go by faster, and I thank God for the distraction; I am desperate!

I have nearly six weeks of bed rest left, and I am under the impression that when I get up it is going to make me feel better: less gastrointestinal problems and more ability to eat. I could be totally wrong. I really want to get up though. I have a few fears about that. She's lying a little transverse, and my water broke at home with my son, so if that happens again I am a little concerned about cord prolapse. But I know I just need to let all that go, because worrying isn't going to magically prevent anything! It's just extra emotional discomfort. I know, I know: “Don't worry. Just pray and be thankful.” I try.

I so want this pregnancy to be over. I want my mouth to taste right again. I want to eat without a thought. I want to get up, cook, clean, tend my house. I want to be my son's mommy again. I want to go places and do things and be his teacher again. I want to go to church and make food to bring to prayer meetings again. I want to wash dishes in the church kitchen and wipe off tables and be a part of life. I want to go to cookouts and pool parties. I want to go to the beach and pick up a bushel of oysters on the way back. I want to steam them and share them with my crazy pals. I want to be a part of the organic coop again. I want to have play dates at the park with the kids. I want to function and encourage and be encouraged. I want to live again.

If Elise dies I will be sad for a long time. I don't know that I will even have the desire to do many of the things I now long to do—at least not for a while. But if she makes it, I will not be prepared for the joy. How could I possibly survive? How could I not swell and burst? I wouldn't know what to do with myself! Oh, to know that ecstasy!

(She is rolling around and kicking her head off as I type this. "Don't talk about me dying, Mommy!")

I did so much worrying with my pregnancy with my son. I had HG, the IC, the bed rest. They told me he possibly had Down syndrome and that I possibly had oligohydramnios (low amniotic fluid and relatively high risk of stillbirth). I worried my head off and when he was born I didn't know what to do because I had not planned for him to survive. Often I regretted worrying so much, but of course with my childbearing history and risks I understand why I did. Still, I have tried to give it up for this pregnancy. I haven't worried as much as I did with my son.

I try to be positive about serving the rest of my time. I try to remind myself that after she is born I will never ever feel the sensations of pregnancy again. And as I say that, I know that some readers will feel a blue pang because all they know of pregnancy are minor discomforts, wonderment and much joy. For me, I've never had anything but an horrific, torturous experience with a delightful little kick thrown in here and there.

I say to myself: "In a few weeks you will never again experience the "joys" of being pregnant."

This is the first day of week 30. On Sunday I will officially be out of the 20's, and praise God, because honey, those 20's took about 50 years to get through.

Let's talk about anti-embolism stockings and leg hair growth:
When you can't wax your legs or even shave them because a big whale tummy is in your way your hair starts to grow making comfort in anti-embolism stockings an impossible dream. I think my legs itched less when I had chicken pox (and in the pursuit of excellence I contracted it twice)! Each little leg hair stands on end and pokes its ugly head through gaps in the fiber of the hottest leggings imaginable. The hairs hang there and at each shift pull. Hundreds of nasty little hairs being tugged on—not enough to pull the buggars out, mind you, but just enough to cause the constant discomfort of itching.
It serves me right.

Currently, I am the owner of a Sphynx, a "naked" cat whom we refer to as the "baw-head dog." This cat is lucky not to have hair otherwise I would torment it as I have every other furry feline in my history. Here's the job:

You take a furry cat who is napping peacefully and you find one single hair to torment. You grasp this one hair lightly and give it a quick tug, not hard enough to remove it, but hard enough to create the sensation of a solitary biting flee. Kitty bolts upright and scratches the phantom flea before settling into a blissful nap once again. At which point, you pull the same hair. You repeat this procedure until said cat goes into convulsions or you simply can't stand your own malevolence anymore. It's great fun, unless you're on the receiving end, which is where I find myself now. Cosmic justice.

The little gut monkey seems to be doing well, and by that I mean she is currently still alive and twanging away at my viscera. Praise God again! If born now, she has got great odds. She'd have to stay in the hospital for a little over a month or so, but she probably wouldn't die. This is good news! Each day she stays put elevates her odds.

Her big brother is growing ever concerned over two things in particular:
1. He realized on his own that his life will change—again.
2. He is pretty miffed that she will get nummy nummies, and he won't. They were once "his" nummy nummies and he's pretty territorial. He doesn't even particularly like it when Daddy kisses Mommy, so the nummy nummies thing with Elise is going to drive him bazoots.

I've got children's books to deal with concern number one, but so far I haven't found an Arthur or Berenstain Bears picture book on boobie envy.

I'm still looking.

The night before last I had a dream that I delivered my baby in an early induction, and they immediately took her away from me due to prematurity. Only, they didn't ever bring her back and she seemingly went AWOL in the hospital. They told me she died, but later I found out that they gave her to another woman who had long since gone.

Last night I dreamed I was an elementary school teacher again having a party for my class at my old house. Of course my parents were still alive in the dream.

We had balloons and were making "Bubble Buddies" like on Spongebob. We were eating suckers and having a fun time. One child, a boy, was emotionally challenged and was making holes in the ceiling by throwing his sucker up against it; the stick would embed itself into the soft ceiling tiles. I got angry and scolded him, promising to take him home and have a chat with his mother. He withdrew into a stubborn shell of silence.

I drove him home only to find that he lived in a wall-less shanty with no electricity or running water. Just outside the shanty was a smaller bivouac. Horrified, I peeked in to see a toddler sleeping on a table, only—was he sleeping?

I looked at his cherubic face and it was wrinkled, like an apple head doll, from dehydration. I was screaming that he was dead when he flinched. He “woke up” and told me his mommy was dead. I peeled away the flap that was the entrance to the shanty, and there she lay with the purple-blue mottle of death all over her dumb face. Her legs intersected another pair of dead legs belonging to an older man.

The mother corpse sat up, and I begged her to take the little one in for fluids as he would soon surely die. She consented and whisked him away leaving her older son standing quietly at my side.

Needless to say, my concern over my mother's damaged ceiling tiles waned significantly, and I woke up with a heavy heart.

Almost 29 weeks pregnant! Phew, this is hard work.

Same stuff, different day. Nothing really to report. Elise is kicking up her heels as I type.

"Hello, all you good people! Thanks for praying for me!"

Oh no. The windows are open and someone is burning leaves. Aargh! If I was normal I would like the smell. But I'm not normal. I'm all pregnant and barfy. And so I don't like the smell. And so—HELP!

OK, this entry is boring.

In keeping with the correspondence theme of the day, here is some more from this morning:

"Dear Husband,

First, WHERE IS MY MUSTARD? I CAN'T EAT SOFT PRETZELS WITHOUT MUSTARD! I told you this morning to GET THE MUSTARD! It's not in the cooler! Ugh!

Second, it's Fish Friday, so prepare to pick up some grouper Monterrey after work.

Third, you are getting spankings for not supplying me with mustard!

Love,
Ashli"

The reply:

"Dear Wife,

Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Heavens to Betsy!!! I forgot one thing this morning!

I'm lucky I have pants on.

Sorry about the mustard.

I love you, and have a good day.:)

Bubby"

Bubba’s Morning Routine

I thought I should clarify my husband's morning routine so you can feel even more sorry for him:
*get up
*bathe/brush teeth/groom
*wake smelly, bed-ridden cow-like wife
*take breakfast order and prepare breakfast before nausea lecture starts
*prepare wife's food/drink cooler for the day (remember mustard or receive harassing emails at work)
*dump wife's stinky pee bucket, clean, and refill with ice
*wake son
*administer vitamins to wife and child
*groom and dress crying child who is screaming that he hates school and wants to stay home
*prepare child's snack for school
*open wife's windows (so she can call later in the day complaining about outside smells)
*remember to supply wife with phone
*turn off all artificial lights before leaving for work as they "bother" ever-nauseous, ever-complaining wife
*kiss wife
*force child to kiss wife
*drive child to school
*retreat to hard day at work for much needed rest before returning home to begin grueling, evening schedule

Don’t feel sorry for him: he forgot the mustard!

The Best Medicine

Hey, folks! I am dying laughing! I don't know if they'll still be there when you log on, but as of right now, the two ads at the top of my Web page are for a fart deodorizer and morning sickness! Hello, but does someone know me!

The morning sickness site just sells lemon drops and peppermints, so it's no big deal, but you have to go to the fart deodorizer site! I can't stop laughing! The absolute best part is the inset of the two adults handling the product! Holy smokes! This cannot be a real item. It cannot! Someone read it and tell me if it's a joke. I had to stop reading it because I was laughing so hard that I was scared Elise was going to shoot across the room.

If it's not a joke I'm going to buy a gross for my husband for Christmas! Though, after that last stomach virus I had it will definitely be a case of the pot calling the kettle smelly.

I am sorry, but I'm still laughing. Did you see the product? What's next? A pine tree on a string that you hang from Uranus?

I woke up at around 4 A.M. when Tee-tee Boy got up to use the potty. His daddy wakes him up to go so he won't go in the bed. Little One cries all the way to the potty and back. Heehee! Anyway, all the fussin' woke me up, and I couldn't go back to sleep.

Here in the darkness the mind starts working and takes me places sometimes that I do not want to go. I turned on the radio and got on the laptop and surfed until I finally found the Carter's side-snap baby undershirts I have been scouring the surface of the earth for.

Ugh, Butterfly Kisses is on the radio. Way too sappy.

I think part of the reason I can't sleep is because in three hours or so the plan is to see Elise's face for the first time. Today's the day for the 4D ultrasound. They're going to give me a disk of jpgs, so you too might see Elise today!

Wella, wella...It's still not quite six in the morning, so I guess maybe I'll try to catch one or two winks before the big event. I'm sort of dreading going to the office a little bit because everyone is so dang grumpy there all the time, and yes, I have every intention of asking a healthy person if I may have her seat on the couch.

My MIL is taking me because my husband has taken so much time off of work that he is starting to get nervous. It will be good for her to see Elise before she is born and doubly good for her to take some pictures back to my FIL, a preacher, who has told me such things as "Abortion isn't my issue," and "It's not a baby until it comes out crying." My husband says his dad doesn't really mean these things and that he's just protecting himself because he lost his grandchild in an abortion. My MIL once told my husband that ending the life of a gestating child is "a choice between a woman and 'her' god." That may be, but the one and only God has told us which choice is acceptable to Him

“This day I call the heavens and the earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live.” Deut. 30:19

Dealing with my in-laws' perspectives has been deeply, personally painful for my husband and me, and in the context of preachers, Christianity and God, I have to say that I wish I could make this avid, church-going couple really care about these little people, created by God's own Hand.

“Did not he who made me in the womb make them? Did not the same one form us both within our mothers?” Job 31:15

By His own Word God calls children His reward.

“Children are a heritage from the LORD, offspring a reward from Him.” Psalm 127:3

Further, I wish that everyone who professes faith in Christ could understand that a woman does not belong to herself.

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 1 Corinthians 6:19-20

One who bears the mark of Christ upon her soul can only make the choice that God advocates—even when the temptation to escape a crisis pregnancy is overwhelming. When God compels a woman: “Love your neighbor as yourself,” (Mark 12:31), He advocates the choice of love.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

And Love, ladies and gentlemen, does not make a woman a grave.

“For he did not kill me in the womb, with my mother as my grave, her womb enlarged forever.” Jeremiah 20:17

Ben Franklin had it right when he said, "Experience keeps a dear school, yet fools will learn in no other." That is me all over. I supported abortion staunchly and yet was somehow simultaneously "religious" for 25 years of my life. Nothing any "lifer" ever said affected me. Ironically, abortion itself made me understand that if my child was a child they all are. And when is it ever OK to kill children? Is there ever a reason that really justifies it? When we see heartbreaking pictures of starving, suffering children do we think “bomb them” or “feed them?” What is happening to us? The shock of realizing I'd been duped by rhetoric and, appallingly, my own egocentricity all my life, combined with the traumatic aftermath of abortion, finally made me take notice of how contradictory my ethics were. And I learned what God really has to say on His terms. It doesn’t take the problems away, but it does convince me that there have to be other solutions. God’s solutions.

And I'll tell you one thing: When Jesus said, "Let the little children come to Me," (Matthew 19:14) I don't think He meant for us to pack them into jars and ship them to Him personally.

Ben Franklin had another wise saying: "He that doth what he should not, shall feel what he would not." And, from the perspective of a woman who aborted her child, I would not want anyone to feel what I feel.

Later today I will see the face of my unborn daughter, and I will see the truth.