Last Monday I felt incredible disappointment as I cancelled and rescheduled our 20 week anatomy scan. I anxiously awaited Tuesday. All day I teased my husband that I wouldn’t tell him the gender. All day I considered the one baby name I had picked out and how incredibly excited I was to be a mama to be a little baby again.
Tuesday came. The appointment time arrived. The tech began her scan. I talked easily and excitedly about previous ultrasounds, waiting for her to please get to the gender part.
After 15 minutes she left the room. I texted my friends who had texted. I checked Facebook. The picture poll I had posted was more in favor of a girl than a boy, and I was incredibly excited to hear the words: “You have a ______.”
Looking back, I missed several small tell-tale signs.
The thing about being blind sided is you never ever see it coming. Ever.
The thing about shock is it can take days to wear off.
We are officially 6 days into the storm and I still don’t feel normal. And finding a new normal is something I realize I will have to do. Dealing with crying every day, still being a mommy to my 6 year old and 2 year old. Napping daily, resting often, constantly being aware of the precious kicks and jabs and feeling so conflicted.
The doctor came into the room and frantically searched the ultrasounds. They discussed what they could and could not see, and no one would look at me. The doctor began moving the ultrasound wand over my stomach, talking indistinctly at times.
That lump hit my gut. The same lump when I realized my marriage was shattered. The same lump when I saw the dog bite on my son’s face. The same lump when I walked thru other valleys during my life. The lump of emotions and questions, not one of them positive or smile-worthy. The lump that destroys all hope and excitement and immediately fills you with dread and fear.
“What is wrong?!”
I demand an answer, desperately wishing for my husband. I look at the nurse who looks the other way. I realize in an instant her eyes had not been red before, when the ultrasound began. I realize it was intentional, that neither one wanted to meet my gaze or answer the question.
The doctor stood before me, explaining what he sees. The nurse’s profile blurs in the corner of my eye as I begin to cry.
There is nothing we can do.
These words cut deep, slice me painfully to the very core. For a brief moment, I hear or see nothing. Even as I type this, my eyes blur. I search for the right adjective words, the perfect combination of letters to describe this moment and I have none. Still. 6 days later.
For privacy reasons, I will not post the initial diagnosis. There are still a lot of unknowns. The overall cause for the baby’s problems is still unknown and we will need to wait for blood tests to reveal more.
On Sunday (October 22) we sang these songs at church:
Good, Good Father and No Longer Slaves
These, among other delightful worship songs, echo in my head.
I read most of my way through Romans in the first several nights, as sleep eluded me. I read each Gospel account of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. It was a strange feeling, like I too was in my own Garden asking God to remove this storm from my life. I know Jesus pain was bigger, was greater. I am not likening my pain to His. I did find some comfort knowing that even He asked: “Remove this cup from me.”
Many friends have shared verses with me, expressed their desire to help, came and helped. The outpouring of love and prayers over the last 6 days has been amazing.
We went away this past weekend with my family. I felt baby (gender still unknown!) kick and jab, moving about in place where God is forming it and allowing it to grow. That was so hard, ridiculously hard.
I walked along the stream that runs in front of the cabin, I sat on a large rock and I admired the beauty of creation, I cried. Little Martin kicked and jabbed and the tears flowed as I felt those strong movements. A fighter, like mama.
I serve a good, good Father. He knows best, He has a plan. And I may never know why this storm, but I will continue to praise Him and worship Him. Even if my prayers turn to groans, He understands.
Pray for us during this storm, won’t you?
I will share more at another time. For now, I must close.