A Pregnancy Abroad

There have been several “pinch me” moments in this pregnancy – several times where I just didn’t or couldn’t believe that this pregnancy would last.  Most of those moments came right before an ultrasound or Doppler reading of the heartbeat, and then subsided right after I was reassured that everything was really going according to plan.  I know I am not the first woman to experience infertility or a miscarriage.  That said, infertility and a miscarriage is nothing for which anyone can ever prepare, and are things which play mind games with one’s head.  As a result of the struggles Dave and I have encountered on our road to become parents, being blessed with a viable pregnancy at 20 weeks feels nothing short of a miracle.  Because I had become rather cynical about ever having a viable pregnancy, it took me well into the 10^th week of this pregnancy (a week after our first pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage) to stop waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop and realize that this baby might just actually make it.  Now that I am sitting here at the halfway point of the pregnancy, it feels surreal to think that I can now start counting down towards the due date of November 10^th.   Dave and I are both over the moon with excitement for our upcoming bundle of joy.  Still, there is a part of me that can’t totally believe that this pregnancy has gone so smoothly.  I had become a little jaded from the scars left over from trying so hard and so long to get pregnant, in addition to the trauma of the miscarriage followed by surgery.  However, each time we get to see our baby on the ultrasounds and get to listen to its heartbeat on the Doppler propels us over the rainbow after the storm.  All four times we’ve seen our baby’s image on the screen has brought tears to our eyes, and the heartbeat Doppler scans have caused us to become speechless at being able to hear the miracle that keeps growing inside of me.

The care we have received in Belfast with the National Health System has been wonderful and very positive.  Dave’s tax money at work has brought us free health care which has proven equal if not better to the care we received in the U.S.  Our only complaint is that we have to leave it here in January!  There are several options for prenatal care in Northern Ireland.  We have opted for what is known as “shared care” where one goes back and forth between one’s GP/midwife and the hospital where the baby will be born.  I have to admit it is somewhat amusing to physically carry the thick mint green folder containing all of my medical records back and forth between the two establishments; there is even an intimidating boldfaced note on the front of the folder that reads “bring these records with you when you arrive in labor” (we hope we can remember that when the time comes!).  I received the mint green folder at the 12 week “booking appointment” (a 4 hour appointment where they take detailed ultrasound pictures, lots of your blood, a lengthy family history, have a chat with the attending OB, and receive a fat plastic envelope containing months worth of light reading for the “New Parent-To-Be”).  The next exciting appointment was the 20 week scan (ultrasound) where we learned we have a perfectly healthy baby, albeit a very active one who was doing a lot of shadow boxing.  We have also learned that our midwife will be attending to us at the birth, not a doctor.  From what we have gathered, no self-respecting doctor would be caught dead in a “normal” delivery.  OB doctors are on hand only for deliveries which involve complications beyond a midwife’s training.  The midwife care we have received thus far has been very professional, though, and has not made us feel lacking in the least.  We have also been told to expect roughly 8 hours for recovery in the hospital post-delivery before we are sent on my way home with our newborn, assuming that the baby passes its first physical with flying colors and is able to keep down two feedings (however, if it is late at night they let you stay until morning; the midwife told us that the latest she has sent anyone home was 8:00 pm).  The next day the midwife will then come to our house to see how things are going and to answer any questions we might have.  After that, the mad scramble for getting our baby’s passport will start so we can bring it back with us in January (of course it would be a child of Dave who has to use his or her passport within the first two months of its life).  Until then, we are looking forward to the last 20 weeks going as smoothly as the first 20, and are looking forward to the arrival of our little miracle in November.

Of Pubs & Friendship

Last Sunday at our church’s coffee hour, Dave and I were talking with one of our fellow congregants about America’s obsession with Irish pubs.  He asked us why we thought this was the case, but neither of us could come up with a descent answer.  I volunteered that perhaps it has something to do with America’s obsession with the romanticized Irish culture.  He told us that the romanticized culture is actually more truth than fable.  Apparently the Irish pub truly has always been the center of Irish culture and villages.  There was usually one pub for one village, and so it was a place to socialize and build relationships in addition to getting a wee drink.  When one went into a pub, it wasn’t to sit by oneself and drink away the day, but rather to celebrate life and one’s companions, to catch up on the latest gossip, and to deepen connections with neighbors (who may have lived miles apart from each other in rural areas).  As a result, deep-seeded friendships blossomed because of the pubs.  And friendship and friendly behavior, we were told, were and still are a very serious thing to the Irish.  To this day the Irish consider a person’s lack of friendliness to be directly associated with a lack of that person’s social development.  In other words, if one lacks a friendly disposition, one is lacking in the whole development of the person.  The tradition of being friendly and welcoming still survives in modern Ireland, both in the North and in the Republic and is a dearly held piece of the culture.  Dave and I told our fellow parishioner that we have both felt this friendliness and welcoming atmosphere since we arrived in Belfast and especially from people at our church.  Literally every Sunday someone corners us to ask us how we are doing – not just in polite conversation, but genuinely wants to know if we are managing and if there is anything at all with which someone from church can be of help or service.  We felt most welcome right away as within the first week we set foot in Newtonbreda St. John’s, our church.  People did not treat us like the “foreigners” that we were, but rather quickly worked to bring us into the fold and feel as though we were genuinely a part of this group, this tribe.  In fact, within the first week we were treated by one of the long-time members to drinks – coffee drinks – and have had invitations from other people at church to meet up at other coffee shops and pubs as well.  Somehow people at our church realize how alienating it can be to live as foreigners in a strange land, and seem to want to do everything in their power to alleviate some of that homesickness.  We were told that many people in all of Ireland, both Catholic and Protestant, take to heart the example set by St. Patrick – being humble and serving others – and simply wanting to welcome all who come to visit.  A common greeting one might hear in Belfast is “You are most very welcome”, with the speaker meaning every word.  People here are simply welcoming and loving as part of their DNA.  It is a lesson I hope we take back to the U.S. and incorporate pubs and friendship into our lives back home.

Regarding Regattas

Last Saturday, Dave and Toby and I took advantage of one of Belfast’s few days consisting of both sun and warmth and watched the Queen’s Boat Race.  Teams from Queen’s, University College Cork, Trinity College Dublin, and University of Limerick competed, and four grammar schools also competed.  The four universities competed in the afternoon after the grammar schools rowed in the morning.  It really reminded Dave and me of our old high school track meets, with school pop-up tents scattered about and groups of student athletes huddled in the shade waiting for their turn on the water.  However, instead of track spikes and relay batons lying around, boats and boats and more boats were neatly laid out or stacked upon each other waiting to skim across the water or resting in the sun after a close race.  Because there is so much water throughout not only Northern Ireland but the entire island of Ireland, rowing is a big sport here.  For example, the gym where we workout has several rowing machines available to simulate the experience on the water.  However, I always feel like a slacker as I row at what feels like a strenuous pace for me and then a native N. Irish sits at the machine next to me who obviously has far more rowing training than myself and rows so fast and hard the machine looks like it may fall apart.  We found out on Saturday exactly how big crew is here when we observed the “Ramada Plaza Luncheon” taking place adjacent to the finish line under a fancy tent for big wigs who wanted to wine and dine their clients while also taking part in the regatta viewing.  Having never watched a proper crew regatta before, there was a lot of information for us to soak in.  One of our friends back home is on the Grand Valley State University crew team and he gave us a brief primer of rowing terminology so we could pretend to be in the know while watching the boats with one oar per person (“sweep boats”) and the boats with two oars per person (“sculls”) fly by us down the River Lagan during the race.  On an ordinary day, the river would host half a dozen or so scattered boats rowing down or upstream throughout the day and the banks of the river would have people rushing from destination to destination.  On Saturday, though, the river drew so many rowers it could be described as drawing flies to a flame.  The Lagan not only had a clogged river of sweep and scull boats (there was almost a collision at the finish line when one boat trying to turn around got in the way of two boats speeding to the end of their race) but also throngs of people loitering along the river on both sides on the banks.  It was exciting to be part of that crowd that watched the teams put everything on the line for that final moment of glory.  

The entrance to the "Ramada Plaza Luncheon"

The finish line before the regatta started

One of the teams

Another team

Toby's progression of interest: start out people watching...

...then hop on my lap to see what all the fuss was about...

...then decide that a nap was more interesting than watching a regatta.

Hooligans and Gentlemen

We attended the rugby match in March and somehow I never got around to actually publishing the write up I had about it.  I found it and decided it was time to share it.

I had never been to a rugby match and was very excited when we found out that the school cup match was to happen while we were here.  We bought our tickets online, and walked to the match between Methodist College (a grammar school, a type of high school slightly ranked above a secondary school, another type of high school) and Royal Belfast Academic Institute (RBAI - another grammar school).  We left our house with only a twenty minute walk and could already hear the rhythmic chanting coming from the stadium.  As we got closer, the chanting grew and became more fervent in its intensity.  Entering the stadium, we found our way to the “promenade” (the area reserved close to the field for standing only – we were told by a friend that this would be the best place to catch all the action up close), and huddled together in a vain attempt to stay warm in the unseasonably cold arctic wind.  The chanting became deafening loud, and we turned to watch the RBAI team charge onto the field.  After their huddle, the Methodist College team joined RBAI on the green and the rugged rugby players lined up for the start.  Friends have informed us that rugby is more of a "middle class" sport, as opposed to soccer/football which is played more by secondary schools in working class neighborhoods.  I think this quote from "Invictus" (2009) sums up the differences quite well: "Well, you know what they say about soccer. It's a gentleman's game played by hooligans. On the other hand, rugby is a hooligans game played by gentlemen."  However, it appeared that on school cup match day the only division was between the schools and not by socioeconomic status.  As the rugby ball started flying throughout the air, I often found myself cringing when the unlucky courier of the ball got plowed by players of both teams because these unnaturally muscular bodies were wearing little to no padding.  I was further surprised when only two players had to be treated for injuries sustained in this body-slamming contest (I would have guessed more injuries would have occurred).  I was astonished to count a total of five players on the field wearing any sort of head gear.  As the match moved forward and my worrying for the players subsided, I found myself becoming rather amused at how players were hoisted up by their teammates, like overly-muscular ballerinas in a choreographed lift, in order to catch the ball when it was thrown in from out of bounds.  That brevity of graceful movement then segued into a mass of interlocked triceps, hamstrings, and obliques, jockeying for a better position with the ball.  After a brief halftime and another half hour of play, Methodist College emerged as the champion of the cup.  It was amazing to see how a game like rugby could unite so many in the community.  Students were let out of school early, arriving in the stands still in their formal uniforms, and even two foreigners from America came out to see what all the fuss was about.  It was evident that rugby is more than just a game played by grammar schools in the UK.  As much as people may talk about the different classes who play what sport, rugby appeared to me as a source for unity on game day.  It appeared as a way of life, with streets bearing the names of “Rugby Ave” and whole blocks of houses donning matching colors for their respective schools. For at least one day, rugby ruled.