A close friend of mine recently used my situation to illustrate to her New Yorker friends who were lamenting their confinement in cramped apartments. “At least you’re not pregnant,” she pointed out, sharing the intricate web of anxieties I’m navigating. The shock on her friends’ faces made me chuckle; my challenges seem to resonate even with the most hardened city dwellers.
Here I am, seven months pregnant, and my husband is deployed in an undisclosed war zone. He is a trauma surgeon with the British Army, working with special forces, and the only way I can reach him is through encrypted emails. He might manage to Skype if he has access to a computer, the weather is kind, and there’s no communication lockdown triggered by security threats.
When he left in January, the pandemic was just a whisper in the background. We were barely aware of what was unfolding in China; terms like “coronavirus” were not part of our daily discussions. Who could have imagined that just a couple of months later, the world would be in lockdown, with the “safest” place potentially being a self-contained military base in a war zone?
Now, I find myself alone at home, searching for solace in ice cream rather than writing, which usually brings me comfort. The fear of exposing my vulnerabilities holds me back. The last thing I want is to add to the overwhelming noise of complaints surrounding COVID-19. I see others, like my acquaintance who’s also thirty weeks pregnant, expressing sadness over cancelled baby showers, and a fierce part of me wants to respond with indignation. I question her right to grieve such a minor loss when there are larger issues at stake. Bitterness starts to creep in.
But after a spell of indignation, I remind myself of the concept of “comparative suffering,” a topic I’ve encountered in Brené Brown’s podcast. Suffering is suffering, and mine is no more significant than anyone else’s. Still, I would gladly trade my worries for hers. I know my friends battling cancer or COVID-19 would likely feel the same.
It’s surreal to think I’ll be bringing my first child into the world during a pandemic. Yet, my greater concern lies in what awaits when my husband returns. Transitioning from combat to civilian life, I worry about the toll it will take on him. Additionally, as pregnant women are viewed as “vulnerable,” he may face quarantine upon his return to work in Brighton’s county hospital. The thought of him contracting COVID-19 weighs heavily on me. The idea of giving birth alone, without him there to hold our son, looms large in my mind. And then there are the darkest fears—the possibility that he may not return at all, that tragedy could strike as it has for others in the military.
Acknowledging my feelings of entitlement regarding suffering is uncomfortable. Yet, it’s crucial to avoid minimizing anyone’s pain just because it may seem less severe than mine. I need to learn to cope with my feelings while also recognizing the pain of others. How do I allow myself to grieve for what’s lost while also holding space for others?
In my quest for answers, I turned to Pema Chodron’s book, When Things Fall Apart, which I’ve been savoring slowly. She discusses the practice of “tonglen,” a method that involves taking in the pain of others with each breath and sending out relief with the next. This practice encourages compassion and a shift away from selfishness. I realize that comparing and dismissing others’ suffering won’t lead me to the compassion I seek. I must embrace both my pain and that of others, acknowledging its validity.
Chodron notes that “tonglen awakens our compassion and introduces us to a far bigger view of reality.” Emptiness, the root of many fears, is what we often voice in our complaints. The canceled plans, cramped living spaces, and the vastness of our solitude all point to this emptiness. But rather than avoiding it, perhaps this emptiness is an opportunity for discovery—a gateway to a broader understanding of existence.
As I contemplate these thoughts, I find solace in small wonders. A sapling across the street, adorned with blossoms, reminds me that even in challenging times, beauty persists. It serves as a symbol of hope—life continues, even amidst a pandemic that can halt celebrations and disrupt lives.
While I may fret about my worries, nature remains indifferent and unstoppable. My body, now housing my baby, knows this truth more profoundly than my anxious mind. As my little one kicks, unaware of the chaos outside, I take a deep breath. Tomorrow will come, regardless of the uncertainties. I hope that others can find comfort in this knowledge too.
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In summary, my experience of pregnancy during a pandemic is filled with complexities and fears, not just for my own situation but also for my husband’s safety and our future together. Embracing empathy for others and recognizing that suffering exists on many levels can pave the way for healing and hope.