What if

Since I won’t be going on any long hikes or running marathons anytime soon, I’ve been getting a lot of reading done. I just added my thoughts on the two most recent books—Helie Lee’s Still Life with Rice and Many Lives Intertwined by Hyun Sook Han—to my “reading up” page.

Though they are both really different books (one is a novel, the other a memoir), they are similar in that they both offer a glimpse into the lives of Korean women at very different points in the country’s history, offering voices and perspective that I don’t think are heard very often.

And what has really stayed with me are both women’s stories of life here during the Korean War and its immediate aftermath. 

Five (now almost six) months’ pregnant with my first child,  I’ve been driving myself crazy with all the “necessary” preparations—shopping for a crib and clothes, trying to decide on childbirth prep classes. (Do I want Lamaze or Bradley or Hynobirthing? Are there even any classes in English? Answer: Yes.) What about diapers? Cloth or disposable? Sleeping: will we listen to Dr. Sears or Dr. Ferber? (Or, both! Or, neither.) What about a stroller? How will I ever cope with one on the subway?! What about traffic? What about smog!!!

That’s not even getting into the big prenatal medical mind-warp: When do I get the ultrasound results? Is the baby growing on schedule? Have I been eating too many carbs? Too little folate? What about iron supplements? Is that cheese pasteurized?! The litany in my head has been endless.

It took reading about Helie Lee’s grandmother crawling across the remnants of a bombed-out river bridge in the dead of winter with an infant strapped to her back to put things into some perspective. Or, the account of the then-12-year-old Hyun Sook Han carrying her younger sister out of Seoul and fighting other refugees scrounging through military dumpsters to find food.

When I start keeping myself up at night wondering at what age we should send the kid to kingergarten, I try to remember that I likely ride the subway and bus every day with people who buried parents, spouses, sisters, brothers, and — yes — children, in that war. Others ended up separated for life from the rest of their families, condemed to possibly never learn whether their loved ones are alive or dead.

That it’s a luxury to worry about the next ultrasound test or whether I’ll get gestational diabetes. Those women survived much worse, and they are still here, getting up every morning, going about their lives. Sometimes truly horrible things happen. But, life goes on.

On my really big worrying days, I try to imagine what I would do if, one day, I were sitting in my apartment and someone knocked on the door and said we had to get out of the city immediately or risk being killed. What would I do? Where would we go? What (if anything) could we take with us? Then, I try to remember that the likelihood of this happening is remote, will probably never happen.

Then, I try to remember to be thankful.