A Burst of Speed

"Life is just like an old time rail journey . . . delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed." (Gordon B. Hinckley)

This week, amidst the travails on life's proverbial train ride (including a lower-than-hoped-for grade on my Blood and Lymph test), I had a brief glimpse of one of those occasional life-affirming vistas.

During a class on immunohematology, a professor was discussing Rh(D) blood types and pregnancy. Explaining the situation (namely, the steps that are taken to protect the future children of an Rh(D)- mother after she gives birth to her first Rh(D)+ baby), he drew the following picture for us:

As I chuckled at his rudimentary drawing, I was suddenly filled with a feeling of tremendous excitement and anticipation, akin to that of a six-year-old at 5:30 on a Christmas morning - heart racing, chest warm, head giddily dizzy. Sundy is pregnant, I thought. She is going to be a mother. I'm going to be a dad. In less than 2 months our little baby will be in our arms, and we will hold her, comfort her, talk to her, sing to her. One of the greatest desires of our lives will soon be realized.

Then it was back to immunohematology. But in our near future there are bursts of speed sure to thrill us.

On Bus Stops and Samaritans

On days when Sundy has early work, I have two choices: have a rushed morning, leaving with her at 6:15 to catch a ride to the bus stop, or enjoy a more leisurely morning, with time to read and exercise, leaving an hour later to walk to the stop. Recently, I have been habitually choosing the latter option, opting for a few more moments in a warm bed to compensate for the brisk 0.8 mile walk to the bus stop.

Generally I enjoy the walk, as it provides me an excuse to exercise less later in the day and gives me a time to clear my head before starting school. However, the bus schedule has the unfortunate disadvantage of not lining up with my school schedule. One bus gets me to class about 30 minutes early; the second, because of rush hour traffic, usually causes me to arrive 5-10 minutes late. I usually shoot for the first bus, but often I end up rushing because I don't allow myself enough time.

That happened to me last week, when I was running late and speedwalking to catch the bus on time. As I passed an apartment complex, I noticed a familiar-looking woman walking out towards me. I recognized her as a woman who had attended church a few times two months ago, but soon stopped coming and answering her phone. I tried to catch her eye to say hello as I sped on past, but she never looked my way. I thought that I should stop and talk to her, but I was worried about missing the bus. I debated for a few seconds before my introverted, time-conscious side won and I hurried by. Three minutes later, after she had caught a different bus, I saw my bus drive through the intersection where I was to catch. I missed the bus anyway.

The next day, I was running late again, though not as much so. I hoped to see the woman come out again, resolved that this time I would talk to her whether I missed the bus or not. But she wasn't there. As I continued on by, disappointed that the day was not one of redemption for my previous oversight, I saw the bus approaching and started running to the intersection to catch it. Just as I rounded the corner, the bus pulled away, leaving me behind a second day in a row.

I resigned myself to being late, and started pulling out my notes so I could study as I waited. Just then, an old red SUV stopped in front of me and the window rolled down. "I saw you running," a West-Indian inflected voice said. "Can I give you a ride to catch the bus?"

I gratefully took the man up on his offer and jumped in. He quickly passed the bus and dropped me off a few blocks ahead.

As I rode the bus to school that morning, I pondered the two days' experience, comparing my and the driver's attitudes. The hurried Levite did not compare well to the helpful Samaritan. Next time I will stop; getting to class on time, however important the material, does not justify passing by the "fall[en,] . . . stripped, . . . [and] wounded."

30 Weeks

Last week, we got back from our Christmas trip to Utah and realized something: Sundy is now 30 weeks pregnant. As it has been filled with uncertainty from the beginning, this pregnancy has seemed at times to progress at an excruciatingly slow rate. The second trimester, especially, lasted forever.

Hitting 30 weeks, then, is a big deal. Right now, our little girl weighs 3 pounds. Her lungs are functional, if not fully mature. Her heartrate is around 150 beats per minute, and she is an active little chick (maybe a future tennis player?) - I've felt and even seen her trying to punch and kick her way out of the womb multiple times. In seven short more weeks (after I've made it through only two more exams), she will be considered full term. Our pregnancy is looking more and more like it's turning into parenthood.

Which carries with it another set of anxieties. As much as we like to think we've done to be ready as parents, we still feel woefully unprepared. Even after watching diaper-change instructional Youtube videos, Duntson Baby Language DVDs, and weekly parenting examples during sacrament meeting, even after Sundy completing a master's degree in family therapy and counseling multiple children and me with 18 years of experience babysitting 5 younger siblings, Sundy and I are not quite sure we know what kind of parents we'll be.

But we're doing what we can to be prepared. Including organizing the nursery (though there's still more work to be done...):

10 more weeks (cerclage coming out on February 25)!